The Echoes Of My Everything
by houseofballoons
Summary: You don't care to follow the train of thought, because - really - it's ridiculous. But Santana still won't meet your eyes and your stomach lurches uncomfortably. You think back to a comment Tina made the week after the wedding, something snide about Santana "finally completing the Unholy Trinity", that you had ignored, because there is no way... S/B AND S/Q. Post 4x14.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER**

This is a Brittana centric story, told mostly from Brittany's perspective, and hence it is tagged as such. This story does contain a _significant_ amount of Quinntana though, so if if you aren't okay with that, then this probably isn't for you.

* * *

You sit perched on the very edge of the couch, not quite comfortable but not entirely uncomfortable, and you pick distractedly at a fray in your jeans. The loft is much bigger than you were expecting, all high ceilings and bare walls, and the vast expanse of it makes you feel small and insignificant. You just sit there taking it all in for a minute, trying to ignore the way Rachel sits across from you - frantically tapping at her phone and shooting what looks a lot like nervous glances your way every few seconds.

Maybe you should have called. It had seemed like a great idea in your head, showing up unannounced in New York to surprise Santana. She would find that special smile she reserved for you only and pull you inside, holding you and running her hands through your hair while she clung to you, desperate to get closer. It would be perfect, you had thought. You had only been mildly disappointed when you were greeted by a shocked Rachel on arrival instead of a jubilant Santana, but you had beamed at the shorter girl and squealed "surprise!" before pulling her into a hug that lifted her from the ground.

She had smiled at you once her feet were reacquainted with the floor, and she had looked genuinely pleased to see you, but you hadn't missed the flicker of something else that crossed her features when you asked if Santana was around. She had been uncharacteristically quiet as she had stepped back and allowed you in, sliding the door shut tentatively behind you. She had spoken a few short sentences about shopping, about lunch, about "she'll be back soon.." and you had smiled serenely at her, taking the spot on the couch that she had gestured to. It had all been a little weird you supposed, but then, Rachel was just kinda weird. It had never bothered you before.

Only now she's huffing at the screen of the device in her hands, biting her lip, and mumbling things about how Santana won't answer her phone or reply to her texts, and you're not really sure why it matters. You've waited this long already, and though the desire to see her has consumed your every waking thought for as long as you can remember, you guess another little while won't kill you. If anything it will give you time to calm the way your stomach is doing flips and somersaults, and maybe you won't be such a nervous wreck when you finally see the brown eyes that have haunted your dreams for months now.

You tell Rachel its fine - that you're more than happy to wait. You tell her you want to surprise Santana anyway, and you try not to dip your eyebrows in confusion when she shoots you a look - unreadable and lingering a little too long - before returning to her phone.

* * *

You hear the unmistakable sounds of voices and footsteps coming from the hallway behind the heavy steel door, and you freeze in anticipation. Rachel freezes too though, and her eyes widen a little before scrunching shut when the door flies open and not one, but two girls tumble in gasping with laughter, clinging to each other to remain upright. You recognize both immediately, and your heart swells and your whole body feels warm and fuzzy. Because here, in front of you, is the girl you love with every last breath and bone in your body, and you have never in your life felt as _sure_ as you do right now. Your eyes fall to the blonde clutching at her and you're a little surprised Rachel didn't mention that Quinn was visiting too, but you're so happy to see her, to see them both and you stand from the sofa with a tentative smile.

The movement draws the attention of the two girls and you watch as Santana's eyes land on you, the laughter dying in her throat as she freezes and the grin slides from her face. You shuffle nervously, unsure of what exactly you should do, and when you glance at Quinn hoping to see a warm and reassuring smile, you're surprised to find her looking as though she's just seen a ghost. Your eyes flicker and find dark brown again and you can't read the expression on Santana's face; it pains you a little because you can normally read her so easily. Or at least you used to be able to. You really hope that's its okay that you're here like this.

Your eyes drift down her body to drink in the sight of her and its only then that you notice her hand, entwined with Quinn's, in an image so familiar it actually causes your breath to catch a little. Because normally it's your clammy hand she clings to, fingers threading between yours, and the memory of it is so haunting that it causes your hopeful smile to falter a little. You don't get to dwell on it for long though, and when she tears her hand free and you bring your head up again, Santana is glancing around at just about everything in the room _except_ you and Quinn's gaze is fixed to the floor.

"Britt?" she says finally, her voice quiet and unsure as she regards you, and you feel relief wash over you as you see her face soften a little. "What are you doing here?" It's a legitimate question - a sensible starting point - only suddenly you're not sure you have the answer anymore.

"I.." you start but her gaze is making it hard for you to form words, and you clear your throat a little before trying again, "I wanted to see you." It's a simple statement, and you guess it doesn't answer her question, not really, but it's the only truth that really matters to you right now. You expect her to smile at your answer, at your presence in the middle of her apartment, but she doesn't, and it stings more than it should.

You hear Rachel shuffling from behind you and her voice floats across the room but you're only mildly aware of it. "I think I'll leave you guys to it... you know ... go and, er, get started on dinner" she stutters and there's a pause before she adds a quiet but firm "Quinn?" and hazel eyes have found yours and you don't recognize the look behind her orbs either, and it's all so frustrating. She hesitates at Rachel's words and her head turns slightly to look to Santana, only Santana's gaze is still fixed on you, face unmoved and stare slightly unnerving. Quinn stares at Santana's profile for a long moment before her eyes drop, and she moves past you quickly, disappearing after Rachel.

* * *

She sits opposite you, taking the seat Rachel just vacated, and fidgets uncomfortably before finally meeting your eyes. She smiles softly at you, as if she's just remembered who you both are now that you're alone, and it makes you ache in a way you can't quite explain. It's a good ache, you think, but it does hurt and it makes your head spin with questions and declarations of love and forever and you bite the inside of your cheek to force it down.

Her smile only grows though, and you are so gone. She just looks so beautiful sat here in front of you, the warm orange glow of early evening lighting her just perfectly through the window, and your eyes aren't sure which part of her to appreciate the most. She looks the same as she does in your dreams, in the photos you constantly flick through, but it still takes your breath away because she's really here and it's just so so much better.

"Sorry," she says a little sheepishly after a while and looks away bashfully. You guess you were so caught up in her that you hadn't noticed her caught up in you, and the thought finally brings the smile back to your lips when she tells you she can't quite believe you're really here.

You shrug a little and by now you are both shamelessly grinning at one another like lovesick fools and you feel a little dizzy. "I wanted to tell you something," you say, and she tilts her head slightly to one side as she looks at you curiously, wordlessly encouraging you to continue. "I just found out this week, I guess I'm on course to graduate with flying colors.." you say and trail off because the intensity of the look she is giving you renders you speechless.

"Britt..." she says, and she opens her mouth to speak again but it takes a second or two for her to actually make any sound and her voice is laced with so much emotion when she tells you she's proud of you that it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She regards you with such a tender and adoring gaze that you feel your heart no longer fits in your chest and you say the words you weren't actually sure you would be brave enough to.

"You were the one person, the only person I wanted to tell when I heard. You just.. you always made me feel so special, so smart... I couldn't wait to share it with you.." Tears pool in her eyes as she looks at you, and she shakes her head a little before clearing her throat and smiling at you lovingly.

There's a crashing noise of saucepans from the kitchen and just like that the spell is broken and reality sets in, and you watch carefully as the look you noticed earlier returns to Santana's features and her eyes leave yours once more. You know that look, you knew it earlier though you didn't want to acknowledge it, but now you can't ignore it - guilt. It makes you anxious, and when you ask her what's wrong, you wonder if you even want to know.

There is an uneasy feeling in your stomach that you first noticed back in February at Mr Schuester's wedding; when you had seen all the playful glances and smiles Santana and Quinn had exchanged, when you had seen the way Quinn's touches lingered a little too long on Santana's skin, when you had seen the way their faces were just a little too close as they had slow-danced around the room. When you had seen them duck out of the reception giggling at 10pm, only for them not to return...

You don't care to follow the train of thought, because - really - it's ridiculous. You had known it then and you know it now. Or you would do, but Santana still won't meet your eyes and your stomach lurches uncomfortably. You think back to a comment Tina made the week after the wedding, something snide about Santana "finally completing the Unholy Trinity" that you had ignored, because you know Tina has some sort of random problem with Santana, and there is just no way...

"Santana?" you say, and she looks up at you reluctantly. "Has something.. happened?" She stares at you. "Did something..." you trail off and your voice is shaky and betrays the insecurity now shredding your insides. "You and Quinn..." you start, but your voice fails you and you don't try again. You don't need to, because her head is dipped and her eyes flick back and forth between yours quickly, and you just _know_. The knowledge causes your heart to shatter within your chest and suddenly breathing feels like the most difficult task in the world.

You shut your eyes as tightly as you can, partly so you don't have to look at her, and partly in a feeble attempt to stem the tears that are threatening to force their way down your face. "Brittany.." she says but her voice sounds so distant and far away and it doesn't even sound like _her_ anymore. You shake your head and lower it into your hands and try desperately to force air into your lungs but you feel winded.

"Brittany" she tries again but you react on instinct, a harsh "don't" falling from your lips and she falls silent. You're not sure how long the silence stretches, and when you finally look back up her eyes are red and shimmering with tears and you hate what this has become.

* * *

The tension hangs heavily in the room as you watch Quinn poke and prod her food miserably around her plate. You're vaguely aware of the sound of Kurt and Rachel speaking about some upcoming show they're in - about how they would love you to come along - but you're not really listening and you're sure they know it. You're definitely aware of Santana's stare on you, watching and waiting for something, for what you're not entirely sure. Your eyes don't leave Quinn though, and you don't even bother trying to disguise the scowl now sitting on your face.

Kurt had arrived home suddenly, and Santana had insisted you skip dinner - that you go somewhere to talk, to sort things out - but you had ignored her altogether and wandered over to the dinner table when Rachel had re-entered with a giant pot of spaghetti bolognese and now the 5 of you sit and eat in near silence.

Kurt coughs a little and asks Quinn how her day was, if she had fun shopping, if she managed to get that "hot new dress" she had been searching for and Quinn pauses her movements, and Santana shifts uncomfortably, and your mind screams at you to ignore it. Images are flashing before you though - changing rooms and hotel suites - and you drop your fork to your plate with a loud clatter.

"Not exactly," Quinn mumbles tightly before standing abruptly and walking towards the kitchen with her plate and you hear a crashing noise as you guess she throws it into the sink. You try really hard to ignore the look of concern, of conflict on Santana's face, as Quinn leaves the room.

* * *

You pad quietly into the kitchen and pause at the door to lean against the frame. Quinn stands with her back to you, hands gripping the edges of the sink and her body hunched over, and you know from the way her shoulders tighten that she's aware of your presence. She doesn't turn to you though, she doesn't move at all, and you only pause a little before walking forwards and taking a seat at the small table that sits in the middle of the room.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor must break her from her thoughts, because she lets out a loud and exasperated sigh before slowly turning round to face you. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest in what you suspect is an act of defiance and she mostly looks at the floor as the room descends into silence. It's heavy and uncomfortable and you're not sure why you even came in here, but you did, and you stare at her willing her to do something, to say something.

"I'm not going to apologize."

It's not what you expect her to say, and you feel a little dazed at the words for a moment before you let your mouth drop open a little. "What?" you ask incredulously, and she finally looks up at you before speaking again, a little louder this time, a little surer.

"I'm not going to apologize for what happened. For what's happening." Her tone is terse and a little confrontational, you think, and you wonder where she even gets the nerve. You don't miss the way she adds a present to the past; the not so subtle hint that this thing between her and Santana is somehow current. The anger and betrayal you've been trying to quash for the last hour or so starts to swirl in your stomach and you have to be careful here. There is so much you want to say, so much you need to say to that. Your thoughts are running away and tripping over each other while you sit, desperate to keep your cool.

"Are you kidding?" you ask as you raise your eyebrows slightly, and you're amazed you manage to keep the emotion from your voice. She doesn't answer you, but you see the way her jaw tenses and her head lifts, and you guess that maybe she isn't. "You slept together Quinn." You try desperately to keep the waiver from your voice, to stop the anger from stealing all the sense in your words and leaving you a spluttering mess. "You're supposed to be her friend. You're supposed to be _my_ friend. Do you have _any_ idea how this makes me feel?"

She scoffs at your words, and you breathe deeply when she speaks again. "How _you_ feel? What about how Santana feels? What about how it felt for her to watch you parade around your stupid relationship without a care in the world?" Your throat feels tight, and you swear there isn't enough air in the room. "She was hurting Brittany. Either you were too stupid to notice or you didn't care."

It's the second time in quick succession she uses the word 'stupid', and you know Quinn well enough to see the intent. You're so taken aback by her words, by the implication that you would ever disregard Santana's feelings, that you simply stare back at her wide-eyed.

"Someone had to do something, and you sure as hell weren't going to. I'm not going to apologize for - "

"For what?" you snap irritably, interrupting her. You've just about had enough of Quinn and this holier-than-thou crap. She has no right...

"...for helping her," she finishes sharply and it's your turn to let out a scoff. You roll your eyes and turn your head away from her because, quite frankly, you are seething now. She continues regardless though, and you wish she wouldn't bother,

"I was there for her when you weren't."

The words hurt like a physical blow and your entire body slumps. It had been there, that feeling - gnawing at the back of your brain since you arrived - but now Quinn has put words to it and the idea feels infinitely worse than it did before. The weight of your regrets has settled heavily on your chest and its suffocating. Maybe you have no right to feel so bitter about this; that Quinn was the one to offer Santana the comfort you would never deny her, but the jealousy rears anyway, and you feel nauseous from the power of it. It should have been you. You know it should have.

You hear a laugh escape her lips, but its harsh and mirthless and there is nothing funny about any of this.

"But here you are," she states, and you can hear the thinly-veiled acidity in her words. "You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

You suspect she probably isn't waiting for an answer to that.

You get it, you kind of do. You guess that Quinn felt a little abandoned when you found your way into her and Santana's lives and laid claim to the other girl's heart. You know it hurt her to watch her best friend drift away and into your arms, and to watch her oldest friendship descend into verbal smack-downs and physical blows. But it's not like you planned it that way, and it was never about taking Santana away from Quinn, so the resentment she's now directing at you leaves you a little perplexed.

She opens her mouth, but for the first time since you started this godforsaken conversation she actually falters, and it closes quickly. She closes her eyes slowly and takes a deep breath that you hear rattle through her lungs before she pushes off from the sink and stalks past you and out of the kitchen without another word. For your part you just sit, staring numbly at the space where she stood a second ago, and you finally allow the tears to silently fall.


	2. Chapter 2

**_NOTE_**

_I understand those who think the narrative may seem a little one-sided so far, and I would like to address that in future – As a viewer and fan I don't actually blame either girl and this story ultimately won't be about attributing blame as such, but feelings are still a bit raw at this point and so there will be angst and a bit of finger-pointing by all the characters. I would like to explore all the issues around their break-up but it didn't seem right to do it in one go. The original piece actually had two main parts but I cut off the second half because I was a little unsure about it, so I have included it here as a second chapter, and it adds a little more clarity on certain things. The majority of the story will be from Brittany's POV, but I might come back to Quinn._

* * *

You leave the kitchen as quick as you possibly can and you walk straight past Kurt in the living room as he shoots you a confused and slightly pitiful look. You're not sure where Santana and Rachel have disappeared to, and you don't dwell on it. Part of you wants to just leave, to be absolutely anywhere but here, but you don't know your way around and you don't have anywhere else to go. So you retreat to the bedroom where you had awoken this morning, and it already feels like a million years ago.

You flop down onto what you've come to think of as your side of the king-sized bed, and you try to remember how, many hours earlier, you and Santana had laid here. You had told her all about the new class you started last week and how the obnoxiously enthusiastic professor had reminded you of a certain Rachel Berry, and she had chuckled and given her sympathies and you had both agreed that one Rachel Berry was_ quite enough_ to be getting on with.

She had offered to make you pancakes for breakfast and you had wrinkled your nose, because you know her pancakes taste a little like cardboard, though you would never actually tell her that. Weeks ago it might have resulted in a prickly well-placed insult being thrown your way, but with this new-found calm that exists between you, you guess she might have just pulled a face and rolled her eyes.

It's so comfortable, so easy. It has been for a while now. You never really talk about it - she doesn't ask why you now visit her every second or third weekend and she hasn't once pushed you about what happened on Valentine's Day. Maybe she doesn't feel the need, maybe the tentative and shy kisses you share in the dark of night explain themselves. Maybe she's just happy for the company. You're glad she never asks, because you feel peaceful and content in a way you haven't in a really long time, and you're not sure you want to think about what any of this means.

Only now the bubble has well and truly been burst, and you feel a pang of guilt in your stomach as an image of piercing blue-eyes punctuates your thoughts. It's a feeling you're more than familiar with - it's been there every time Santana or GayBerry have mentioned her name, and every time you've spotted Santana lounging around in that grey baggy sweater you know once belonged to Brittany.

You especially feel it when you look at the pictures stuck up on the wall, scattered around Santana's bedroom mirror. There are a few - one of Santana and her parents after graduation, one of the glee club after winning nationals, one of the cheerleading squad. The one that usually catches your eye is a little larger than the rest though and in it you see your own laughing face, as Santana grins and drapes an arm over you, her other arm wrapped tight around Brittany. You all look so happy and carefree and every time you see it your heart clenches and the guilt swells, and you think just maybe you shouldn't be doing this.

It's a hollow feeling and you're not even really sure why you snap when Brittany verbalizes exactly what you've been struggling with every time you visit here. Because there is, and always will be, an undeniable feeling that Santana is _Brittany's _and not yours, even though you know that's stupid and no-one can really _own_ someone else. But Brittany and Santana have been two halves of the same whole for so long now that you do feel genuine remorse every time you tug that one half a little further from the other, a little further in your direction.

There is a part of you though that revels in it, in this new secret that exists between you and Santana because it's yours and yours only. For so long you've felt like an outsider trying to pry and force their way in, and now it's you who stands at the center of it all. Your emotions clash and battle and confuse the hell out of you, and you almost regret that _stupid _comment about a sexy red dress that started this all. You can't quite bring yourself to truly regret any of it though; you just wish you knew what that meant.

You wonder if perhaps you've gone a little far this time - because really, Santana and Brittany and Sam and the whole shitty mess they find themselves in isn't really any of your business.

You guess that you and Brittany have never been super close, not when it really comes down to it, but Santana had always loved her, and so had you in your own way. You had always sought to protect her from those who would take advantage of her kindness, from those who would mock her for being a little different, a little naive. It's ironic then you suppose, that it is now you who has torn into her, borne from some bizarre need to protect Santana.

Truth be told you're not even really completely sure what happened between the two girls...

You know Santana did the breaking-up, and you think you understand why, even if Brittany maybe doesn't.

You know that Brittany started dating Sam, and it's not like she did anything wrong, but you still think it's shitty that you knew about it before Santana did. Blaine had told Kurt, and Kurt had told Rachel, and you had wrinkled your nose in distaste when Rachel had told you. You think it's especially shitty - and kind of surprising - that she married Sam, even if it wasn't a real wedding.

You know Santana went to see Brittany right before she moved to New York, but Santana has avoided saying all that much to you about that particular visit.

You know that Brittany was all over Sam at the wedding, sparing only the odd lingering glance in Santana's direction, and it didn't seem right, it didn't _feel_ like the Brittany you once knew, and it was as disappointing as it was frustrating.

You know Brittany is here now, but what you don't know is why. Or you do, but its not fair. Brittany has Sam doesn't she? You wish she would just leave it alone and let Santana be, but you know she won't and you understand, reluctantly, why she probably never will. It doesn't stop your annoyance at her being here though, and it doesn't stall the fear and anxiety now simmering in your stomach. It mostly just makes you feel a little more crappy about the fact that you slept with the love of her life, and then yelled at her for it.

You hear footsteps coming towards the door moments before it's pushed softly open to reveal Santana and the barely disguised look of sadness she wears. She hesitates a little - and it's silly because this is her room - before moving closer to sit at the bottom of the bed, one leg tucked neatly beneath the other, facing where you sit propped up against the headboard.

You feel a heavy sense of dread tugging at you as she toys with her lip between her teeth and it's not like her to be so quiet, not around you.

"I really didn't know she was coming" she says eventually, and it's little more than a whisper. You hadn't thought otherwise, but you think she's trying to offer you some kind of reassurance, and it's probably all you'll get, so you'll take it. "Right," you say because you're not sure what else you can say.

"You're glad she's here though." It's not a question, and you're not sure why you bother saying it at all. She looks at you carefully and she seems to be weighing up her next words, and you let your eyes fall shut because you're not sure you want to hear what they are.

"I know this is kind of messed up," she says quietly, though her voice sounds loud in your ears. "It's complicated and awkward and all kinds of uncomfortable. But just... I don't know. Take it easy on her, okay?" You get what is happening here, that she is stuck in the middle and it shouldn't feel like she's taking sides, but it does.

You tell her okay. You say that you're tired and you think you might go to sleep. You look at her like she might say something else, like you need her to, but she doesn't. Or at least not until she slides into bed beside you nearly an hour later - when she whispers a quiet "night, Q" before she turns her back to you and curls into herself, careful to leave a distance between your body and hers that you're all too aware of.


	3. Chapter 3

Your body lies entirely still in the position you wriggled yourself into about an hour ago, but you're not comfortable and you're no closer to sleep than you were when you first laid down. There is a faint red glow emanating from the alarm clock that sits on the bedside table on the other side of the bed and you can just about make out the features of the room in which you now lie.

You hadn't really considered the practicalities of staying here before showing up unannounced at an apartment with no spare rooms. You had already supposed that you probably wouldn't be sleeping in with Santana, that it would be too strange for the both of you, so it doesn't particularly bother you that it is Rachel you share a bed with now.

What does bother you is the knowledge that Santana isn't alone in her bed; that just down the hall from where you lie there is a different blonde occupying her space. It shouldn't be any of your concern who Santana shares her sheets with - not anymore - but it bothers you, and you don't know when this feeling will diminish, let alone go away. You wonder if it's just because it's Quinn; if maybe you'd feel okay with it if it were someone else, someone you didn't know. You had told her to move on after all. You think you already know the answer to that though.

You're physically and emotionally exhausted and your eyes sting with tiredness and long dried tears. You will yourself to sleep, to shut down and shut out all the thoughts now swirling around your brain, but it's hopeless and your own consciousness is taunting you. You shift into a new position, turning so you lie on you front, and you pray this will be the one that finally brings the peace of slumber.

* * *

When you awaken, blinking disapprovingly at the sunlight streaming in through the window, your first thought is to wonder where the hell you are. You prop yourself up a little by your arms despite how each and every one of your muscles protests, and try to bring the room into focus. Rachel's room. You're in New York. Crap.

The night is coming back to you in bits and pieces, and you flop back down to the bed with a groan and roll over onto your side. There is a note lying next to you rather than a person, and you reach across and attempt to decipher it through bleary eyes.

_Brittany,_

_I've gone out for the morning, but I will be back at like 2. I didn't want to wake you up, you looked like you kinda needed the sleep. There is plenty of food in the fridge, totally just help yourself, and you can have a shower if you like. I hope you don't mind - I told Santana you might need some space, so you should have the place to yourself for a bit. If you need me, call me. Really._

_R x_

You smile a little, and you are overwhelmed with more affection for Rachel Berry than you ever thought possible. You're not exactly good friends or anything, but this is so kind and thoughtful of her and it makes you feel a little less alone.

You think of Santana, the same way you seem to do every morning when you wake up, and you sigh a little. As much as you're relieved you won't have to face her this morning, you're also disappointed. This weekend is clearly not going to be the weekend you had imagined, and you begin to regret thinking this was a good idea at all.

It had been a difficult decision to come here – you had weighed up the pros and cons for weeks before biting the bullet and deciding that you had to do it, that you had to see her. Maybe it's selfish of you, dropping in on her so suddenly and without warning, for thinking things might just be _normal_ between the two of you if you just got to see her in person.

You think back to the last time you had spoken to her, in an empty auditorium, when you had told her with a heavy heart that she should follow her dreams and go to New York. She had told you that you were her best friend, and you had thought maybe things would finally start to get a little better, but the two of you have barely spoken in months and she feels further away than ever. It feels like she is slipping away from you, slowly but surely, and you have no idea what to do.

Sure, you do keep in touch, but it's sporadic and detached and it usually leaves you feeling worse than you did before. Her replies to your texts are awkward and half-hearted, and she always seems to be too busy to speak to you on the phone. When you do talk she's so quiet – guarded in the same way she used to be - and it makes you sad because you always hoped that she'd never have to feel that way again.

The ease and comfort of your interactions has long since disappeared to be replaced by this new dynamic - where there is so much you think you both want to say, but neither of you will actually say it. You test the waters from time to time, taking tentative steps into territory that feels forbidden for the two of you now, and you tell her on the phone that you miss her. The line just goes quiet though, and it's as if you can actually hear the walls flying up around her as she awkwardly acquiesces with a barely there "yeah.." before abruptly changing the topic. It breaks your heart.

You glance over at the alarm clock and note the time, _11:23am_. You almost never sleep this late, but then the last glimpse of the same clock you'd seen before you drifted off had shown _4:37am_, so maybe it's not surprising you slept on. You pull yourself up reluctantly, throat feeling dry and scratchy, and move your pyjama clad legs out from under the covers, as you stand and move in the search of water and maybe an aspirin.

* * *

You hear movement coming from the kitchen when you emerge from Rachel's room and you trudge in the direction of the noise hoping to find Kurt, so you are entirely surprised and suddenly petrified to realize that the form seated at the table where you sat last night is unmistakeably Santana. You pause, thinking maybe you can just turn around and sneak off, maybe you can just hide in Rachel's room till she comes back. You're such a coward.

She seems to have spotted you in the peripheries of her vision though, and her head rises slowly to look at you. You are surprised to find yourself feeling calmer once her eyes are on you, and the urge to run away dissipates just as quickly as it arrived. She's sitting in light grey sweatpants and a navy tank top, her hair piled messily on top of her head, as she cradles a mug of coffee in one hand, her phone clutched in the other. She places both down, but keeps her hand wrapped round the mug, and she sends you the smallest of smiles that is both weary and fleeting.

You look at her properly and you note that her eyes are red and puffy-looking, though more from lack of sleep than actual crying you suspect, and she holds herself stiffly, one leg tucked beneath the other and hunched over the table. You try to keep your face as impassive as humanly possible and pray for her to make the first move, and she indulges you. She tells you _hey_, and it's soft and uncertain and it makes you relax as you finally cross the threshold and move into the room a little.

"Hi." You breathe out softly and shift uncomfortably on the spot before she nods at the chair across from her and you take it hesitantly.

You regard each other for a quiet moment before she speaks again, awkwardly offering you a coffee which you politely decline, before you settle back more properly into the chair. The look she is giving you is a melancholy one and is strangely comforting, diffusing any tension you might be feeling at being in her presence once again.

"Where is everyone?" you ask in a lame attempt to break the silence, though you do want to know why she didn't leave like you guess Rachel told her to, and you definitely want to know if the two of you are alone. She takes her time to answer you, her eyes now focused on the mug in front of her as she fiddles with it absentmindedly.

"Berry dragged Ladylips to some yoga morning in the park," she says, rolling her eyes a little. "They looked like extras from some knock-off footloose remake, I may never be able to look at anything lycra ever again" she drawls, but there is a small smile on her face and you wonder at the new dynamics between this group; you hope Santana feels at home here, that she has found friendship with the people she now lives with.

Her smile fades a little though because you both know you weren't really asking about Rachel and Kurt and she pauses, apparently deep in thought, before speaking again.

"Quinn left" she says, trying a little too hard to keep her tone casual and flippant, and you raise your eyebrows.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she had stuff to do back at Yale anyway. Papers due, things like that."

She shrugs like it doesn't matter but you can tell from the way she sets her jaw that it does, and so you don't push her on it. Selfishly you're a little relieved; this is hard enough without having Quinn here to attack you and confuse your already warring emotions. Maybe you and Santana can finally talk properly and openly without other people here to interfere.

The silence isn't as uncomfortable as it probably could be, but you feel a change in the temperature of the air as she drags her finger round the rim of her mug and purses her lips and you know she wants to say something.

"Are you angry with me?" she asks quietly, and a few seconds later her eyes reluctantly flicker up to study your face. You realise you haven't actually exchanged any meaningful words since the revelations of last night and you close your eyes as you remember.

You're not really sure how to answer her, because you're not really sure of the answer yourself. It doesn't really feel like anger, more just hurt, but the lines between all of your emotions are so blurry these days that you don't actually know. More to the point, there are so many missing pieces to the picture now emerging in front of you, that you think maybe you can't make that decision just yet.

"I dunno," you tell her honestly, "I'm not really sure what's going on." You wonder if she will enlighten you, if she will start to explain the parts of her life you are no longer privy to. She just nods a little though, like your answer is as she expected, and she makes no move to assuage your fears or doubts. Now the silence feels a little uncomfortable, and you seek to fill it.

"Are you?" you ask, and she looks at you questioningly. "Angry with me, I mean."

She looks at you for a long moment before she speaks, and she looks a little conflicted when she finally does.

"Honestly? I was a little, yeah." She doesn't _sound _angry though, just weary, and her eyes are soft as she considers you. She notices your brow furrow, and continues with a sigh. "I don't want to be though." You don't really know what to make of that.

"Okay," you say slowly, dragging the word out. "Talk to me." You give her an encouraging smile and license to say what she wants to say, even if you might not agree with it. You give her the room to move this whole thing forward.

But she looks at you suspiciously, like she's not quite sure of your angle here, of your intentions.

"Why?" she asks, and old memories spark in your brain. The word and the tone wrapped round it take you back to the evening you sat in her bedroom, when you had told her that with feelings it was better. You know she's upset and just being defensive, but it hurts because after everything you've been through, you thought you were past this now.

"Because we need to talk about it at some point, Santana." You explain patiently, though the look on her face suggests she doesn't quite agree with that assessment.

"There's not much to talk about Brittany, it's done now. I don't see the point in dragging it all up again when it won't change anything." There is no bite or malice to her words, though there is a tone of quiet finality, and you frown at her.

Maybe she's right, maybe it won't change anything, but surely you have to try? Your bond means too much - she means too much - to just give up and leave things the way they are. Your entire relationship – be it lovers or friends - is flailing and failing and you won't stand by and watch it happen. It's not _done_, not in any of the ways she means the words.

"Are we still best friends, Santana?" you ask, and immediately wince at your own choice of words and the way you've gone about phrasing your point. You want to remind her that despite anything else, she is the most important person in your world, and you in hers. You think she has taken your words quite differently though.

"What?"

Her eyes are flashing dangerously, and you falter a little before you continue. "Well, you say that we are, but it doesn't feel like it anymore..." You trail off because maybe accusatory isn't the route you should be taking here, and you should know better when it comes to Santana. She crosses her arms defensively as if to confirm your thoughts.

"Right, because it's that easy?"

"Isn't it?" you ask, because you don't understand. You want her in your life. You know she wants you in hers.

"Maybe for you."

Her words are laced with barely masked annoyance, and she looks away from you entirely.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, confused and hurt and desperate for her eyes to be on you again, though you're not prepared for her words when they are.

"It _means_ that it might be easy for you to pretend that we are and always were nothing more than _just friends_, but this is difficult for me." Her words are tumbling from her lips quickly and she sounds more desperate and exasperated than anything else. "I'm sorry I can't just play at besties with you Brittany, but I don't like how things are, I don't like how they ended up, and this is hard."

"And you think I don't know that? I'm just trying to make the most out of a bad situation, because I love you and I don't want to lose you completely." You reply shakily, your voice rising slightly despite your attempts to keep it calm. "Do you honestly think that any of this is what I wanted? _You_ broke up with _me_, Santana."

"Because I wasn't good for you, not because I stopped loving you!"

"Well that wasn't your decision to make."

Your final words are quiet but firm, and her mouth hangs open a little before she shuts it, her shimmering eyes blinking helplessly at you before she closes them tightly and turns her head. She places her elbows on the table and rubs at her face, before stilling her movements and just holding her head as she stares down at the worn wood of the table.

You want to reach out and touch her - you haven't had any physical contact with her in months, and you feel it more keenly now than ever.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with tears, but she doesn't move or look at you. You can't stop yourself any longer, and you slide your arm across the table and lightly touch the side of an elbow just so your bodies are connected in some small way, and her breath hitches slightly at the contact. You hold it, and a strange sense of calm settles over you.

She looks up and when your eyes meet you feel hope softly flickering in your stomach that maybe this isn't an ending so much as it is a new beginning for the two of you. You're actually talking, and it certainly feels like somewhere to start, so when you let an unsure smile grace your lips and she returns a watery one, you feel a little bit better for a moment.

You sit quietly, looking intently at one another, trying to convey all the pain and love and hope that you feel. Vibrations shake your arm where it lies on the table, and both your eyes flicker to watch the screen of Santana's phone light up. You're sitting close enough from when you leaned across to touch her, and even upside down you can see clearly what the phone displays, and just like that you deflate a little.

**_Quinn_**

iMessage

She quickly flicks the lock button and the screen goes black once more, and you feel her eyes on you. You glance back up at her slowly and send her a tight smile you're sure is less than convincing, and her face is unreadable once more.

"So… What do you want to do?" she asks, settling back into her chair and breaking the touch you had been sharing. You can tell from her faux-cheery tone that she's not asking the big questions anymore; she's not exploring the intricacies and complexities of your relationship or asking where you take it from here. She's being evasive, and you both know it, so you don't actually answer her and you tilt your head instead.

"You came all the way to New York Britt, you may as well enjoy your stay here," she says by way of explanation, as if it's obvious. "There are loads of cool things I could show you, or places we could go. I mean, I'm not exactly an expert yet or anything, but I'm sure I know enough to keep you entertained." She shoots you a wink, and you find a genuine smile despite yourself.

"I'm sure you do," you say around a smirk, and she returns your smile lazily. You probably shouldn't let this slip as easily as you do, there is so much you need to talk about and discuss, but it's infectious the way her laugh carries into you and you miss her warmth like it could actually be the sun.

She balls her fists and stretches her arms out in front of her, yawning and contorting her body to soothe her muscles, before watching with amusement as your eyes drift to her stomach where it has become exposed by her movements. She arches an eyebrow in your direction and you roll your eyes as she settles back into a neutral position.

It's funny how you can move from tears and hard truths to flirty winks and longing glances so suddenly. You guess it's only fitting really; your relationship with Santana always had oscillated awkwardly between physical and emotional until you'd finally settled on some blissful middle ground, and this playfulness feels so familiar and comfortable that it's almost easy to forget that you are not together in either of those ways anymore. Not really.

She picks up her phone and stands from the table, and your eyes snap to follow her as she begins to walk from the kitchen, tossing a lazy _get dressed Britt_ over her shoulder as she retreats to her bedroom. You smile because maybe, just maybe, there is something you can salvage here after all.


	4. Chapter 4

People-watching is probably one of your favorite things to do in life. There is something inherently therapeutic about it to you, though you've never really understood why. There is a couple two tables down from you who are gazing at one another, hands clamped together on the table, and they've hardly said two words to one another in ten minutes though they don't seem to care. There is a lady opposite you reading a book, and though you can't see the title, you can see tiredness in her eyes and tension in her posture, and you wonder idly what she does for work.

People-watching is fascinating. Watching Santana is addictive.

When she had offered to show you around the city and take you wherever you wanted to go, you had requested she take you the places that mattered to her. You've already visited the coffee shop where she had sought a reprieve from her new roommates every day for the first week after she arrived. She's taken you to the open-mic bar where she usually spends her Friday nights with Rachel and Kurt, and you guess, maybe Quinn.

Now you sit in the café in which Santana works, and it's bright and warm and Santana just _fits_ here, you think. The place is modern and there are ridiculously good-looking staff gliding around the tables dressed entirely in black and dark grey, effusing effortless charm. Santana definitely fits here.

She stands at the far wall, her arms folded, and leaning over a counter that displays various baked treats that you suspect look only half as tasty as she does right now in her tight cream and navy dress. She's locked in conversation with a pretty girl working behind the counter who's dressed in a high-waisted skirt and form-fitting t-shirt, her light brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail.

You have no idea what they're talking about. Santana disappeared off over ten minutes ago to get you drinks before evidently getting distracted, but you're finding it difficult to be annoyed as you observe from your table. Both girls are smiling and laughing as they chat animatedly, but it's not flirty or suggestive - they look like they actually might be good friends - and Santana looks happy and at ease in a way you couldn't have pictured the last time you saw her. The pretty waitress doubles over in laughter at something Santana has said and you smile, because it was only a matter of time before the world at large got to see this Santana, the one you had always known, who is incredible and special in just about every way.

A dark-haired man emerges from behind the girl carrying two large milkshakes which he places on the counter next to Santana, spilling a little on himself and promptly trying to smear it on Santana's face as she bats him away and throws a napkin in his direction with a look of amused warning. You could watch her like this forever.

She picks up the milkshakes and heads back towards you, not before throwing a glare and a comment back at her colleagues, who just laugh and wave at her, and she reaches your table with a smile and an eye-roll.

"Sorry about that," she says placing your drinks down and taking a seat opposite you. "One double chocolate milkshake with crushed oreos. I had them make it especially," she informs you with a proud look, and you smile because _of course _she would remember.

"I like it here," you tell her earnestly as you take a sip from your drink, "it seems like a really nice place to work."

She shrugs a little. "Yeah, I mean, it's pretty great I guess. The tips are good and they're really flexible about my hours. I get Wednesdays and Fridays off to do auditions, and the people here are actually pretty cool."

"You're still doing auditions?" you ask, a little surprised. "I thought you were taking a break from all of that? You said that casting directors were just jealous washed-up syncopants who wouldn't know talent if it smacked them clear in the balls-"

"Sycophants, Britt. And yeah, they pretty much are, but I maintain hope that the next one might actually have a functioning set of eyes and ears and realize that my endless talent_clearly_ needs tapped immediately."

"Wanky." You say, and you smile.

She looks at you in that way that only she does, like you might be the most brilliant person in the entire world, and it makes your toes tingle. She breaks the moment first.

"Anyway, it's not like I'm in any rush, working here suits me just fine for now. Berry says my big break is right around the corner, though Kurt thinks she's only saying it to keep me sweet so I don't kill her in her sleep. I mean - as if. I totally would have done it by now. Although, if she doesn't adhere to the new no show-tunes before 10am rule, I may have to re-think my position."

You chuckle, because you can totally picture Santana chasing a singing Rachel round the loft with a kitchen knife.

You watch her as she twirls her straw through her milkshake. You frown a little because the drink is slightly pink, and Santana's favorite flavor of milkshake is vanilla. You shake the thoughts from your head as she speaks up again.

"So how is school? I mean, apart from you absolutely ace-ing it, obviously." she says with a tilt of her head and a smile that you think doesn't quite reach her eyes. You shrug.

"It's good. Being head cheerleader is fun, and all the new Glee kids are super nice. Even Kitty, like… kind of."

You're trying to make your voice sound peppy and enthusiastic, but you know it doesn't and you know she notices, so you sigh a little.

"I mean, I enjoy it I really do, I just... " you trail off and she doesn't push, she just watches you quietly. Normally she would be the picture of concern, asking you what's wrong and how she could fix it before doing something silly or sweet to make you smile. She just sits there though, and she suddenly looks a lot older than you remember. You guess she wants you to continue.

"I dunno, I guess I just wish I'd just graduated with you guys. I really miss everyone, it feels like everyone has moved on and up and I'm just... stuck. I thought doing senior year again would be fun and I'd get to do it right, but it just feels kind of wrong. Like when they show re-runs of your favorite TV shows and it's never as funny the second time round, and it turns out that like, the story doesn't even make that much sense.."

You're nervous and rambling so when you stop abruptly to take in air you find the rest of your words have left you and you're not sure what point you were trying to make in the first place. Santana looks sad, even a little upset at your outburst, and you kind of wish you had left it at _good_.

"Britt.." she sighs and reaches across the table for your hand and you meet her halfway and hold on tightly. The look on her face now closer resembles the one you had expected, the one you had remembered, and the familiarity of it feels like a giant hug as she sets about trying to _fix it_ like she always has.

"You're not stuck, you just... took a pause. So what if it took an extra year, you're graduating now and you can do anything. You realize that right? You can be whatever you wanna be. You always could, you just took the long way round, that's all."

There's something about the certainty in her voice, the way she sounds so sure of what she's saying, that warms you from head to toe. You needed to hear that from her, you really did.

"Jesus, it's not like the rest of us have anything figured out. I mean, yes, Rachel has her creepy twenty year plan which alarmingly seems to be on-track, but we have all the time in the world to figure ourselves out Britt." You can't help but focus on the "we" in her words and you cling to it, hopeful that she sees you in her future as much as you see her in yours.

It's kind of funny how only a few months ago the roles were reversed and you had given her a pep-talk to help her through her own crisis of confidence. Now she sits here looking all mature and wise, and you can't fight the smile that settles on your face.

"I think you're still the smartest, Santana" you tell her, and from the way she blushes a little you know she realizes you're not talking about SAT's.

"It's a gift." She says, nodding at you sagely and squeezing your hand a little before letting go. You immediately miss the contact but content yourself to admire the easy smirk playing on her lips before it fades slightly.

"Do you have any ideas?" she asks, "About what you might do when you graduate?" Her tone is casual and conversational but you don't miss the way she is now fidgeting nervously with the napkin in front of her.

"Not really. I've been so focused on making it that I hadn't thought that much about what I'd do when I got there" you tell her, and it's kind of half-true. Sure you have dreamed up hundreds of scenarios that might see you here, in New York, but you're not sure if any of them are realistic and you're not so certain of your reasons anymore.

You feel the shift in the mood of the conversation and you try to put it off a little longer.

"Maybe Harvard." you tell her with a grin but she only half-smiles back at you.

"What does Sam want to do after graduation?"

The question blindsides you completely and you are momentarily lost for words. You expect her to look away from you but her hands have stilled and the way she is regarding you now is entirely casual, as if she hasn't just brought up the one thing that is undoubtedly the sorest point between the two of you now. It makes you feel a little uncomfortable and very confused.

"I don't know, we haven't really talked about it," you admit.

You and Sam mostly talk about movies and video games, about his latest work-out regime or what routine you're doing in Cheerios. You've been so busy with school, and he with his new Blaine-mance, that you haven't even seen that much of each other recently.

It hasn't once occurred to you to ask Sam about his plans for the future.

"How come?"

There is no malice or judgment in her voice, she doesn't even sound particularly interested in the answer, though you think she must be. She wouldn't of asked otherwise. Santana never says anything without reason or meaning, you've learned that much from your years together.

"It hasn't come up," you mumble and shrug.

She raises an eyebrow at you, just slightly, but she doesn't actually say anything. Months ago she might have made a sly dig about him becoming a professional fish impersonator, or maybe suggested he record some of his impressions for use as a sleeping-aid for insomniacs. Now her silence feels deafening, and you feel a little defensive.

"Anyway, any decisions I make about my future will be about me, not about someone else."

Her eyes narrow a little at your words, and you realize that by trying to steer away from the issue of Sam, you've probably just insulted her. You're about to back-track and explain what you mean but she speaks before you get the chance.

"That's probably for the best." she says and there is an edge to her tone that you might miss if you didn't know her so well.

"I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant." She interrupts, and you sigh because once again you're arguing and it's _never_ been like this between you. There is a sense of finality in her tone that warns you to drop it, but you don't.

"It's not like you went to Louisville instead of New York because of me," you say quietly, but it sounds more like a question and you have kind of wondered. Her eyes are fixed and hard as she looks at you, and she takes far too long to answer.

"Of course not."

She's lying. You tell her as much.

"It doesn't make any difference," she sighs in annoyance, "I'm here now."

"I would have supported you either way," you assure her, and she quirks an eyebrow in disdain.

"Would you though? Or would you just make me feel guilty for 'leaving you behind'?" She says easily as she throws your own words back in your face with air-quotes and you frown.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty," you protest, because you weren't.

"Then what exactly _were_ you trying to do? Because it just made me feel like crap. I was trying my best Brittany."

"I know that." you say quietly. There is a pause and you know what she is about to say even before she says it.

"But it wasn't enough though, was it?" she asks you, and she looks so small and lost. She looks like a completely different girl to the one you watched a matter of minutes ago.

"It might've been," you say and you really mean it.

Her face falls a little. You think maybe she wanted you to say _no_, to validate her choices and make this outcome inevitable, but it would be a lie on your part.

"We could have tried." Your voice breaks a little. "I would have tried."

"I know."

Her answer comes after a long pause and it isn't what you expect, but when you look at her to expand on it you guess she either can't, or she won't.

* * *

By the time you return to the loft, the tension has eased a little and you have managed a half hour of only slightly stilted small-talk about Lord Tubbington and your upcoming Fondue For Two schedule. She listens graciously and laughs at all the right times and in all the right places, but she's still quiet and subdued, and you miss the light you had seen in her earlier in the afternoon.

As you clatter through the front door Kurt's head appears suddenly above the sofa startling you, and he zeroes in on the bag of take-out in your hand before vaulting the sofa altogether and coming straight for you with arms outstretched.

"I didn't think I was your type Kurt," you quip and he pats your arm before snatching the bag from you and making his way to the dining table where plates are already laid out. You glance towards Santana who has kicked her boots off and is disappearing into her bedroom while looking intently at something on her phone.

Rachel emerges from her bedroom a second later and gives you an appraising look before scanning the room quickly and stepping a little closer to you.

"Is everything okay? Santana text to say she was taking you out for the day. I thought maybe she had kidnapped you…" she finishes gravely and you guess she still hasn't lost her penchance for melodrama.

"Everything is fine." You tell her with a smile that you know hasn't fooled her but just as she opens her mouth to speak, Santana re-appears from her room and so instead she just stops and silently ushers you to the dinner table. You sit next to Rachel and opposite Santana, who sets her phone aside after a minute and begins to tuck into the food, and Kurt re-emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of wine.

You pause from your meal so that you can all toast your visit, and it's only _marginally_ awkward, but then Santana rolls her eyes when Rachel begins one of her lengthy speeches about you all being one giant family and you stifle a giggle into your glass.

The rest of the meal is pleasant enough – you let Rachel lament the "regrettable downfall" of Glee Club since she left while Santana and Kurt interject with catty comments and you focus carefully on not mentioning Finn while you fill them in on what their replacements are up to.

It's only when Kurt is leaning back in his chair, rubbing his stomach ruefully and watching with a look of disbelief as Santana forks food from his plate – seriously, where is she putting all that food? – that real life comes barging back in again.

"Do you have to leave tomorrow Brittany?" Rachel asks and you meet Santana's eyes as they move from her plate to you, and you stare at each other carefully for a moment before you wrench your eyes away to look at your own plate. You hadn't actually discussed how long you might be thinking of staying for.

"I guess so," you reply, "it's an open return ticket, but I should probably get back." You glance at Santana again but she is avoiding your eyes.

"It's Spring Break next week isn't it? Do you have anything exciting planned?" Rachel continues, but you shrug and mumble that you had no plans, and that's that. You can see Rachel attempting - in vain - to catch Santana's eye, before she gives up and speaks again. "You're more than welcome to stay here and hang out with us," she says brightly and you watch Santana's face for a reaction. When you don't catch one, you send a tight smile Rachel's way that you hope conveys your wish for her to change the subject and she shoots a glare in Santana's direction before huffing and returning to her food.

* * *

Kurt decides shortly afterwards that you will all be spending the evening watching _Rent_ and Santana huffs but relents far quicker than you expect her to. Rachel snorts and remarks that it will be nice change to have a Saturday night that doesn't involve a drunken Santana and Quinn waking her up at 3am by trying to make cheese toasties and setting off the fire alarm before abandoning the idea altogether and leaving her to clean up the mess. It's an amusing image for all of one moment before your head becomes fuzzy with jealousy again, and Rachel must realize what she's said when she looks up at you apologetically. You smile though, and you stand to take the finished plates into the kitchen.

Santana follows you almost immediately, stuffing the plastic boxes and containers from dinner into a bin bag and coming to stand beside you at the sink.

"Just leave the dishes for now Britt. I'll do them later. Well… I'll make Berry do them later." She nudges your arm and smiles at you and you smile back, grabbing a dish towel to dry your hands.

"Do you think you could come with me to the train station tomorrow morning?" you ask quietly, busying yourself with folding the towel into a perfect little square.

She doesn't answer you immediately and when you dare to look up at her, the expression on her face is a little anxious.

"You could stay," she says softly, and you can see the uncertainty in her eyes, you can hear the insecurity in her voice. "I mean, if you wanted to. You could stay for a bit." You search her face as if the answer is written on it somewhere, as if it will give you some inclination as to whether you should stay or go.

Because there is nowhere else you'd rather be, and there is no-one else you'd rather spend your time with, but it's not exactly that simple anymore. There are other things to think about, other people to consider here, and there is still so much you don't know or understand about this new ground you find yourself on. The look she is giving you is so intense that you feel a little unsteady. Your reply is almost a whisper.

"Do you want me to?"

You think for a moment she might get defensive. She could shrug and say she doesn't care either way, she could tell you to do whatever you want, tell you it doesn't matter. She doesn't though.

"Yes." She says simply, and that's really all you need.

You step closer to her and watch as her eyes darken just a little - you feel suddenly overwhelmed and a little out of control. Reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear you let your hand linger for a moment, tracing the side of her face ever so gently. She inhales sharply and her eyes almost flutter shut but her gaze remains on you as you allow your hand to drop to her arm, trailing the length of it to find her hand, so you can tangle her fingers with your own.

"Then I'll stay. I'd really like to stay."


	5. Chapter 5

So it's probably one of the most, if not _the_ most alarming thing to ever happen to you, when you open your eyes on a sunny Sunday morning to Rachel Berry's face looming over you from a matter of inches away. You shoot up immediately from your horizontal position, pushing yourself back into the headboard and drawing the comforter around you as you stare at her wide-eyed.

"Good morning!" she beams at you happily, and you wonder briefly if she spikes her morning coffee with speed or if she's always like this. Her enthusiasm is poking giant holes in your sleep-fuzzy brain and you wish you had a curtain you could draw on her or something.

"Morning," you mumble gruffly, still a little perturbed at Rachel being in your personal space, even if you are in her bed.

She bends down over the side of the bed and produces a breakfast tray laden with toast, fruit and porridge and places it across your lap.

"I put a little something together for you," she says, feigning modesty and you regard her a little suspiciously. Breakfast in bed is awfully nice and everything, but the way she's looking at you and nodding puts you in mind of some sort of serial killer - buttering you up before she murders or eats you.

"Thanks Rachel. You really didn't have to…"

"Trust me Brittany, I really did." she tells you dramatically while shaking her head. "God only knows what excuse of a meal Santana might have served you. While her culinary expertise in general may have surpassed my somewhat low expectations, she hasn't exactly mastered the delicate art of breakfast..."

"I resent that." You turn your head and smile as Santana moves into the room before flopping down ungraciously onto her stomach on the other side of Rachel's bed. She's wearing an incredibly small pair of shorts and a tank-top that barely fits her, and you try really hard to ignore the fantastic view of her boobs you have from your position. Thankfully, Rachel's voice distracts you.

"Santana, what have I told you about knocking before you just walk-"

"Lots I imagine, though I tune most of it out" Santana says matter-of-factly as she props her head up on her hand, smiling back at you.

"You can't just stroll in here unannounced Santana, this bedroom is my sanctuary and-"

"Oh please. You come into my room unannounced all the time. Half the time it's just to bombard me with boring facts about your day."

"Well I'm sorry for trying to be a sociable roommate."

"There is nothing sociable about the hours you choose to barge into my room uninvited. I refuse to entertain your shrill tones at the crack of dawn."

"10am is _hardly_ the crack of dawn."

"Whatever. What's with the Martha Stewart impression?" Santana pushes herself up slightly and regards the tray on your lap with interest.

"Well I thought our _guest_ could use a nice breakfast to start the day. Maybe something more substantial than a cracker or slice of cold pizza…"

"I am capable of making a proper meal you know."

"A box of pop-tarts does not constitute a meal."

Santana snorts and you grin, because you guess Santana's morning rituals haven't changed one bit. She turns away from Rachel and looks at you, tilting her head.

"So I have good news and bad news," she says and you raise your eyebrow.

"Go on," you say through a mouthful of toast and Rachel looks at you disapprovingly as she brushes crumbs from the covers.

"Well, the good news is I managed to get an extra few days off work this week," she says brightly and you can see Rachel's eyes narrow from the corner of your eye.

"You didn't get fired, did you?" Rachel deadpans and Santana rolls her eyes.

"No I didn't get _fired_, I called in some favours."

"Sexual favours?" Rachel asks with a raised eyebrow, and you choke a little on the mouthful of toast threatening to lodge itself in your windpipe. You hit your chest with your fist and feel Rachel's hand rubbing at your back, while Santana just regards you with an amused smile.

"Of course," she says with a twinkle in her eye that suggests – you hope – that she's just joking.

"What's the bad news?" you ask when you finally regain the power of speech, your hand still rubbing absentmindedly at your chest.

"I have to work pretty much all of today," she says while scrunching her nose, and it's so cute you can't even. Rachel claps her hands together enthusiastically from your side and you re-focus on her now grinning face.

"Well in that case, Brittany and I can spend the day together!" she says delightedly and you glance quickly at Santana who has drawn her lips into her mouth to conceal her laughter.

"You don't have to…" you start but Rachel holds her hand up and turns her head like she's not listening.

"Nonsense. We'll have a great time, I'm a far better tour-guide than Santana," she says and you can see Santana rolling her eyes but she's still smiling.

"Awesome…" you say, and Santana actually does snicker this time, and Rachel picks up a grape from your bowl of fruit and throws it in her direction. Seemingly untroubled, Santana just locates the grape and pops it into her mouth, smiling cockily at Rachel.

* * *

After Santana leaves for work it takes you and Rachel quite some time to decide what you're going to do for the day. You tell her that you don't mind staying in, maybe taking a lie-in, but she insists she will take you _somewhere_. You relent, mostly because her tone is touching whiny, but partly because you are kind of intrigued.

When you leave the apartment and head for the subway you stare around the streets with wonder, overwhelmed by how busy it always seems here. You enter the train, and you stick closely to Rachel, a little nervous at the sheer amount of people in the carriage with you. It's strangely comforting as she smiles subtly and places her hand on the small of your back as if to ground you. When you exit the carriage she drags you towards the exit by the hand and you don't protest because you're just pleased you haven't been left behind or kidnapped by that homeless-looking man who spent the entire journey staring at you.

She drags you along a crowded street and informs you that she's taking you to a _juice-bar_ and you scrunch your nose because you don't even know what that is. Maybe it's like, a posh coffee shop? You don't even really like coffee; you only ever used to go to coffee shops because Santana went, and it made you feel grown-up.

When you walk in the first thing you notice is that absolutely everything in this place is wooden – like the walls, the floor, the tables – and it's so _trendy_ that it hurts your eyes. It's only when you sit down, eyeing the concoction in front of you with uncertainty, that Rachel speaks again.

She gives you a pointed a look and tells you _it's good for you_. You're not even really sure what _it_ is. You kind of lost track when Rachel started chucking obscure fruit names at the poor boy behind the counter who looked like he doubted the actual existence of some of her suggestions. Now she's rambling to you about anti-oxidants and free-radicals and you're not sure why she wants to talk to you about politics now of all times, so you take a sip of your drink to humor her and she beams at you like a proud mother watching their baby take their first steps. It doesn't taste _that_ bad, you suppose. You still pull a face for good measure though, and her smile changes to a knowing smirk as she rolls her eyes.

"It's okay, I guess" you tell her and she grins at you.

"Santana won't come with me," she explains with a flick of her wrist, "she says it's horribly pretentious, but I think it's only because she's threatened by my extensive knowledge of fruit."

You laugh a little because you can totally tell that Santana would _hate_ this kind of place.

"You know, I'm really pleased that you decided to stay, Brittany," she says sincerely, and your smile is as much in response to her words as it is to this bizarre new friendship you're forming.

"I'm sorry for kind of invading your bed. I hope I'm not, you know, cramping your style or anything," you say as you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively. She just grimaces and assures you that you're _really not_.

"I don't mind, honestly. It wouldn't exactly be appropriate for you to sleep in with Santana anyway" she shrugs casually, and you dip your brow a little.

"It wouldn't?"

Sure, it might be a little _awkward_. But inappropriate? She looks at you like she's not sure if that's a serious question and she appears to be choosing her words carefully.

"Well, you're still with Sam aren't you?" she asks hesitantly, and when you don't react she seems to take your silence as an affirmative. "And Santana's…"

She leaves the sentence hanging and your stomach tightens uncomfortably. Your words are out before you can stop them.

"Santana's what?"

"Well, you know…" she tries to shrug the question off and averts her gaze but you fix her with your stare.

"I don't, actually."

You feel bad for the annoyed tone of your voice, because none of this is Rachel's fault. She looks up at you and tilts her head a little, her face a picture of quiet confusion.

"I thought you and Santana had a talk about…all of this? She said she would talk to you…"

"We didn't talk about…that."

It's ridiculous how neither one of you will say her name, but you don't particularly want the taste of it on your tongue and hearing it aloud would make this all the more real. You wonder if maybe it's just better that you don't know the details…

"They're not like, together though, right?" you ask, because the idea that they could be seems so absurd to you, though the awkward silence everyone seems to be upholding over the matter hints otherwise. You _really_ don't like the way Rachel is looking at you now; concern and what looks a whole lot like pity - maybe even a hint of fear - sliding onto her face.

"Honestly," she says, pausing a little, "I don't actually know Brittany."

That's not really the answer you wanted.

"But they're sleeping together?" you ask quickly, and Rachel's eyes go almost comically wide at your words and she chokes a little on a sip of her juice. Maybe you shouldn't be putting her on the spot like this, but you're getting increasingly fed up of feeling like you're the only one left in the dark.

"That's not something Santana and I particularly discuss-"

"You must know though, you live together," you argue. You don't even care that you sound a little desperate; this morbid curiosity appears to have taken hold even though you know deep-down somewhere that you're not going to like what you find if you keep digging. She looks at you intently for a moment.

"It's not really my place to say, Brittany."

You look away - that sounds an awful lot like a _yes_ to you. You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a cry, because this is _insane_. It's not even that Santana slept with someone else, it's that it had to be Quinn. Quinn - the only other person _close_ to being a best friend to Santana, the only other girl who has been around through tears and fights and fall-outs, the only other one who Santana has _loved_ for years.

You could be okay with it - _maybe_ - if it were some nameless, faceless new girl. Santana could meet someone new and they could date but it would never even _touch_ what you had shared, and that thought has always comforted you. But Santana and Quinn have a history, and it doesn't even matter that it was just a friendship because once upon a time that's all that you and Santana shared, even if you always knew it was more.

It feels like Quinn is taking your place, and it _hurts_.

"She still loves you."

The sudden intrusion of words forces its way into your brain and your eyes snap back to Rachel, who's biting her lip and looking as though she's just said something she's not supposed to. Your eyes flicker across her face as you try to take in what she's telling you – you know that Santana loves you, she always will - you're her best friend. You wonder if that's what Rachel means though, because there's something in her eyes that's telling you that she's not talking about _friendly_ feelings. She looks a little uncomfortable under your stare.

"She knows that she messed everything up," she continues and you frown because that is so _not_ the impression you've gotten from the interactions you've had with her these past few days. You wonder if Rachel's just trying to second-guess Santana, or if they've actually talked about it, because Santana has expressed a few things to you since your break-up but not much of it has seemed like regret. You think she probably misses you, and you know she doesn't like you dating Sam, but her feelings about the fact you are no longer together haven't really been that clear to you until this weekend.

You think back to Diva week; you had chalked her actions up to jealousy and possessiveness – Santana had always been fiercely competitive and you had loved that about her, even if it seriously pissed you off sometimes. She's proud too, and she hates letting people see her weak or having people pity her. She hates it so much that she paid someone to pretend to be her girlfriend. Had you missed something though - between the put-downs she threw at Sam and the display of complete territoriality that had irked you so much?

"She just wants you to be happy."

_Well then._

The thought of her with Quinn makes you feel a lot of things, and none of them are _happy_.

You sigh because this conversation is making your head hurt. You send Rachel a faint smile to let her know that you've heard what she's saying, and you take a long drink of your offensive-looking juice.

"Maybe it's for the best?" she offers, and you frown again - partly because you thought this conversation was done, and partly because you fail to see how she could possibly think that. She must sense your confusion, because she doesn't wait for your answer.

"I just… We're so young Brittany. Lima is all we've ever known – there is a whole world out there. Maybe we all needed to grow up a little, maybe this is just a part of that." It doesn't sound like she is talking about just you and Santana anymore. Maybe she's right, but that doesn't make this hurt any less.

"I know we all have to grow-up," you tell her, because you do. "I just... I wanted us to do it together. I didn't want us to grow in different directions."

You can't decipher the look that now sits on her face, and she is the one to look away this time.

"We don't always get what we want, Brittany" she replies, and you think that the look she now wears has absolutely nothing to do with you or your relationship worries.

"And what do _you_ want?" you ask, and she fixes you with a bittersweet smile.

"Oh," she sighs, "I'm not even sure anymore…"

You smile back a little, because you think that you and Rachel have more in common than you ever thought possible.

* * *

So maybe after a slightly awkward lunch, you and Rachel had kind of an awesome day. Whatever. She's changed since coming to New York, and maybe you've changed too, because her loudness no longer makes you want to set yourself on fire, and you find yourself genuinely enjoying her company. Her enthusiasm for everything almost matches your own, and her new-found confidence means that it's easy for the two of you to banter back and forth. Maybe in another life the two of you would have actually been good friends.

When you arrive back at the loft you think maybe all your uncertainty regarding the day was misplaced. She lets you in, but her phone rings the second she does and she sends you an apologetic smile briefly before quickly taking the call and retreating to her room. You watch her leave, but your attention is focused on the cool breeze now hitting your body, and the heavenly voice that hits your ears.

You turn a little and notice the open window, breeze blowing in harshly even though it's Spring, and you can't mistake the sound of a beautiful laugh floating across the air to where you now stand. It's hypnotic and addictive, and you move closer without even really thinking about it.

You pause as you near the window, fully aware that Santana is mere metres from you even though you can't actually see her where she stands on the fire escape. You hear her sigh, and you listen intently for her voice again.

"Shut up," she says dryly with a hint of amusement in her voice, and you instantly wonder who she's speaking to, though there is a nagging part of your brain that you guess already knows. She chuckles a little after a pause, and you can actually hear the smile when she speaks again.

"You're such a grumpy bitch when you're hungover."

There is a pause. Then, laughter.

"Don't hate just because I'm feeling fresh. You know, working on a Sunday isn't actually that bad when I don't feel like upchucking every 5 minutes. I feel like a whole new woman…"

Pause. Laughter.

"Oh Q."

Pause. Laughter.

"Do I need to have words with anyone? I know how you get when you drink wine..."

There's a tease in her voice, and you've heard enough you think. You move towards the kitchen, unsure of exactly what to do with yourself but knowing you need to not be hearing that particular conversation. You pour yourself a glass of water and lean back against the kitchen counter letting out a sigh. You lose track of how long you stare off into space for.

* * *

Once again you hear Santana before you actually see her, and you stand a little straighter before she walks into the room. She's still dressed in what she wore to work this morning, a long-sleeved knitted black dress that displays a little less leg than you're used to seeing. She's smiling when she enters and though the sight of you lifts her smile even higher, it doesn't make you feel as warm as it usually does.

"Hey! I didn't realize you guys were back yet," she says brightly as she leans against the door-frame, "I was about to call you." You note the phone still clutched in her hand hanging down by her side, and you try your best to make the smile on your face look at least a little bit genuine. "I half expected Berry to have you out till midnight, she obviously spared you the tour of Broadway, otherwise I wouldn't be seeing you till next week." Your smile feels a little less forced, though not by much. You think she notices.

"You okay, Britt?" she asks, coming closer so she stands right in front of you. "You look kind of traumatized, was it that bad?" she jokes, and her proximity feels a little calming, and you sigh as you feel the tension leave your body a little.

"I'm just tired" you say, and you only realize how true it is when you say the words aloud. She frowns at you before stepping into your space and wrapping her arms around you before you have a chance to process what's going on. You feel your body tense involuntarily for all of a second before you snake your arms round her waist and draw her closer, nestling your head into her shoulder and releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding.

It's so familiar the way she embraces you and suddenly all the thoughts that had been troubling you start to float away and it's just you and her, clinging to one another in the middle of her kitchen. She still smells the same, and she still feels the same, and it's comforting in a way you didn't think possible. Because the location may have changed, and the circumstances too - she might have even changed a little – but you know that deep down she's still the same girl you've always loved and you're still the same girl she had loved right back.

You make no move to break the contact just yet and she doesn't either, but it's not awkward or uncomfortable and you could quite happily stand here like this forever. The way her hands are trailing up and down your back is hypnotic and you nearly let out a whine when she pulls back from you slightly. She doesn't remove her arms though, just re-positions herself so she can see your face, and you feel a shiver run through your body because she is _so_ close to you right now. It feels a little dangerous.

"All better?" she asks quietly, as she smiles gently at you. Your gaze drops to her lips for a moment before you force it back to her eyes as you smile.

"All better" you say softly, and it's maybe a little pathetic that it's the truth.

The way she is looking at you right now is entirely confusing. There's something in her eyes but you can't figure it out, and it takes every last ounce of self-control you possess to keep your head still and _not_ move it in her direction…

Maybe it's for the best that Rachel chooses that exact moment to walk into the kitchen, because you were about 3 seconds away from doing something that would probably wreck this still recovering friendship. It doesn't stop the tugging you feel at your heart though, when Santana pulls back completely and moves to stand beside you instead. Her arm brushes against yours and you wonder if she is maintaining the contact on purpose - if she needs to feel your touch as much as you need to feel hers.

She clears her throat a little and smiles at Rachel who just regards the pair of you with a worried look, eyes flicking back and forth between you.

"What do you guys want for dinner?" Santana asks casually, as if she is completely oblivious to the way Rachel is now looking at her.

"We already ate," Rachel replies and her tone is a little clipped and you feel the tension spike in the room.

"Oh, okay." Santana pushes off the counter and walks over to open the refrigerator and peer inside. Rachel's eyes find you again and they narrow a little, so you just shrug and move to take a seat at the table.

"You just gonna stand there like a creeper?" Santana asks even though she has her back to Rachel, and the other girl lets out a brief sigh before moving further into the room and shoving Santana aside a little to get a bottle of water. She drops into the chair next to you and takes a sip before speaking again.

"Try not to set the fire alarm off this time."

"Yeah, yeah…"


	6. Chapter 6

So Santana totally sets the fire alarm off and then blames it on the frying pan, because she _totally_ never burns anything when she cooks back home. You smirk and think better of correcting that particular statement because the daggers she's shooting in the face of Rachel's I-told-you-so's are enough to make you want to duck and hide. She informs Rachel that it's not about how the food looks – that is, black and chargrilled – but about how it _tastes_, which is allegedly awesome. Rachel opens her mouth to argue but you flick her leg under the table and she pulls a face in your direction before smiling sweetly and telling Santana that she's sure it's _lovely_.

After she finishes the last bite of her dinner, Santana pulls a tub of ice-cream from the freezer and grabs three spoons, and though Rachel proclaims that she's on a health-kick, she watches you and Santana for all of one minute before picking up her spoon and deciding to join in. Santana swats her away with her own spoon as she goes to take a scoop and you watch with amusement as they engage in some bizarre kind of cutlery-battle.

Rachel receives a text and informs you both that Kurt is having a _dirty stop-out_ before declaring she is having an early night and setting about her nightly routine which appears to involve 3 mugs of honey-infused tea and an alarming face-mask that makes her look like a demented marshmallow. Santana seems unperturbed, and Rachel gleefully informs you that she and Santana sometimes have girly nights in where they do face-masks and manicures…

"You put the face-mask on me while I was taking a nap, Rachel." Santana says, not looking up from the magazine she is lazily flicking through.

"Well yes, but the manicures were your idea…"

"I thought maybe if I could sharpen my nails into points I'd be able to scratch your eyes out the next time you decided to apply your homemade coconut crap to my face."

"Uh-huh. What about the time I caught you using my _coconut crap_ while I was out?"

You see Santana pause as she mulls that over for a moment before shrugging and turning the page. "It smells nice…" she says and Rachel just smiles and pats Santana's head on her way out of the kitchen, earning her a scowl that lacks Santana's usual conviction.

"You can admit it you know," you tell her with a smile, and she finally glances up from reading what you're sure is a thrilling article about Taylor Swift's Vegas wedding and tilts her head.

"You actually like living with Rachel," you continue and she snorts and tells you to lay off Lord T's weed. You know her though, and when she glances up again and spots your knowing smile she can't fight the one that finds her face so she rolls her eyes instead.

"She has a few redeeming features I suppose," she reasons. "The crazy Jewish lady across the hall thinks she's her long lost daughter and keeps bringing us weird cakes and bread." You quirk an eyebrow in her direction. "Yeah okay, I don't _mind_ it, but don't tell her I said that."

"Oh don't worry, your secret is safe with me. We wouldn't want her thinking you actually enjoy her company," you smile, tapping your nose and winking at her.

"I'm glad we're on the same page," she grins. "Are you still feeling tired? We could watch a movie if you want?"

You glance at the clock on the wall behind Santana – _9.50pm_. Truth be told you're exhausted, but you're enjoying her company too much to go to bed now. It's probably the easiest things have been between the two of you in a long time and you want to make it count. You just miss this so much - hanging out and being silly and laughing. "I could definitely be down for a movie," you smile. It won't be the first time you've fought sleep just to _be_ with Santana.

She drags you to your feet and you keep your hands clasped together until you reach the lounge and she stops you in front of a shelf-unit stacked full of DVDs, telling you she'll be right back and disappearing into her room. You scan through the titles and you don't recognize a lot of them – you're really more of a Disney or animation kind of a girl - and all you can see are serious grown-up looking films, and some of them look like they aren't even in English. You're _definitely_ not a subtitles kind of girl.

You spot _Lady and The Tramp_ and you smile. It's your favorite movie, of course. But the smile you sport is because you remember when you bought this very DVD before giving it to Santana as a Christmas present one year. She had told you she'd never seen it and you had gasped at her in horror before buying it and insisting the two of you watch it together. You still remember the way you had curled around one another on the sofa, snuggled under a blanket…

You're yanked from the memory as Santana re-emerges, now dressed in sweatpants and a navy zip-up hoody. She has another hoody in her hand which she hands to you and you, and you notice it's emblazoned with a University of Louisville logo. "At least I got some free swag," she says and you smile before tugging it over your head and hugging it round yourself. It smells like her, and it's a little intoxicating. If she notices you sniffing her clothes like a weirdo she doesn't say anything.

You pull your chosen DVD from the shelf and follow her towards the sofa where she's now setting up her laptop. She watches you for a moment too long and when you ask _what_ she just shrugs and tells you that you look cute. You don't really know what to do with yourself so you hand over the DVD and she takes it, smile faltering for a small moment when she realizes what it is. "I forgot I had this," she mumbles and if you were hoping the two of you could skip down memory lane together you were clearly mistaken.

"We can watch something else," you offer as you stand awkwardly next to the sofa but she shakes her head softly as she removes the disc from the case.

"It's your favorite," she says simply as she settles back into the sofa and tugs the laptop from the coffee table into her lap. You freeze and your mind begins to work frantically – where the hell do you sit? If you're watching on her laptop you'll have to sit close, like, really close. Does she realize that? Maybe you should sit a safe distance and let her come to you? Are you overthinking it? She glances up at you and you wonder if your irrational panic is playing out on your face, because she smiles slightly and pats the space next to her. You take it, careful to keep your legs from touching hers.

She fiddles with her computer until the opening credits fill the screen and you relax back into the sofa, abandoning the tense way you hold your shoulders. Santana shuffles closer until her hip meets yours and she puts her feet up on the coffee table, sliding the laptop halfway across your lap, and you wish you had some kind of control over the way you heart is beating erratically. You wonder if she is as affected as you are – but her eyes are trained on the screen and you find her hard to read at the best of times these days.

You huddle a little closer yourself, and try really hard to focus on the screen in front of you, though if you're being honest you're mostly watching the rise and fall of Santana's chest out of the corner of your eye. It's with that view that you drift asleep barely ten minutes into the film.

* * *

When you slowly regain consciousness the first thing you notice is the niggling pain causing your upper back to cramp and your neck to ache. The second thing you notice is the fact that your pillow appears to be somewhat bony and is moving up and down rhythmically, and it almost certainly isn't of the feathery or synthetic variety. You really hope you haven't drooled all over Santana's shoulder…

As your eyes flutter open you find that the film has obviously finished, and instead you now watch as items of clothing scroll across the screen. A particularly tight purple dress apparently warrants a further look and appears blown-up on the screen and even when half-conscious you can recognize that it would look incredible on Santana's gorgeous curves. You guess she agrees as you watch her send the garment to her shopping bag.

You shift a little in an effort to halt the pain still clawing at your back and you see her hand still over the mousepad as you guess she turns to look at you. You sit up a bit more properly though you're still leaning into her and you meet her eyes. She smiles at you sleepily and stifles a yawn as she stretches her body out slightly.

"Welcome back," she teases as she nudges you and you grimace.

"Eugh, I'm sorry," you say as you rub at your eyes. You remember too late that you're wearing eye make-up and now you probably look like a disgruntled panda, sitting here in your hoody with your hair sticking up at god knows what angles. "How long have I been asleep?" you ask and she chuckles at you.

"Like an hour and a half," she says, and you groan.

"I'm so sorry, some company I am."

"It's fine Britt," she says around another yawn and you frown at her.

"I hope I didn't keep you up, you should of just woken me or shoved me off…"

"I was tempted," she jokes. "You looked so cute though, I didn't want to wake you."

You blink around the room before looking at the time displayed at the bottom of the laptop screen, and decide it's probably time for bed. As in an actual bed. You sit up completely and bring a leg up underneath you as you shift slightly to face Santana. "Bed time," you announce and she nods and shuts the laptop, placing it on the table and moving to stand. She offers an outstretched hand that you take and you don't immediately let go once you're upright. A thought is slowly taking form in your head, and you feel like testing it out.

"Is Rachel a light sleeper?" you ask shyly and she looks at you quizzically before telling you she has no idea.

"Why?"

"Well if she's fast asleep I don't want to wake her up rummaging around for my things," you explain and it sounds lame even in your head. You wonder how it sounds to Santana - she's looking at you cautiously and weighing her words carefully and you wonder if she's figured out where you were going with this…

"You can borrow some pyjamas if you want," is all she says though, so you agree for now and wait to see if she'll say anything else. She walks towards her room and stops at the door, turning to you and tilting her head to beckon you over. You smile and you follow her inside, your stomach flipping slightly because it's the first time you've seen Santana's bedroom here and it feels like a bigger deal than it probably should be.

Like the rest of the loft the walls are a grey stone that doesn't look as cold as it might do, and everything furnishing the room is black and purple and red. You recognize a few fixtures that used to belong to Santana's room at home, though you guess this is her home now, and the realization feels unusual to you. There are pillows and candles everywhere, as well as clothes scattered over a comfy-looking chair in the corner, and it's kind of just how you pictured it. It's strangely reassuring.

She pulls out a tank top and pair of shorts from her dresser and drops them onto the bed behind you before telling you she'll be right back and disappearing to, you assume, the bathroom. You wander round the room and stop at a wall covered in photos and you're pleased - and a little relieved - to see that you feature in quite a lot of them. Okay, there's no pictures of the two of you cuddling or kissing like there used to be on both of your walls, but you're still present, and there are even a few photos of just the two of you that were taken in Senior year.

Your eyes rake over the photos you're not familiar with – a couple of Santana with Rachel and Kurt, one with that girl you saw at Santana's work yesterday, one of Santana at New York Zoo. There are a couple of photos that look fairly recent that feature Santana and Quinn either alone or with Rachel and Kurt, and right on cue it makes your chest tighten and your stomach knot, so you don't allow yourself to linger much longer. You turn back to the bed to pick up the clothes Santana left for you and change quickly, folding your jeans, top and sweatshirt and leaving them in a pile on Santana's desk chair.

When Santana returns she hovers by the door and you stare at each other across the room, and the air feels a little thicker. You stand awkwardly as she moves towards the bed and busies herself by picking up her phone so she can plug it in to charge. The silence is a little stifling, and you're well aware of what neither of you are saying, so you just say it.

"Would you mind if I sleep in here tonight?"

What's the worst that could happen? Her eyes flick to yours and she chews on her lip as she stands and thinks over your proposal. She seems unsure, and you had kind of hoped she wouldn't be. It doesn't have to be a big deal. You have shared beds since you were kids, even when you both had singles, and you've never had to ask permission before.

Maybe she's thinking back to the last time the two of you shared a bed – you wonder if she's remembering how your fingers felt and how your back arched and how many times her name fell from your lips as you the pair of you did everything but actually _sleep_. You guess then her hesitation is understandable. But that's not what tonight is about, and you just want to feel close to her. No, you _need_ to.

"I dunno if that's a good idea Brittany," she says but her voice is shaky and even though you both know she's probably right, it feels like she doesn't really mean the words.

"It's just sleep Santana," you tell her breathily, as memories of her writhing beneath you replay in your mind like a beautiful echo. "It doesn't have to be weird."

She hesitates a moment longer, but she nods and offers you a quiet _okay_ before sliding into her side of the bed and watching as you slide into the other. You lie on your side and face her as she leans across her bedside table to switch off the lamp and when you're plunged into darkness you can just about make out the outline of her face as she settles back into her pillows and stares at the ceiling.

Even if she won't actually look at you, you find yourself feeling more content than you have in months and you don't have to think too hard to realize what that means. You push the thought away and ignore the flush creeping up your chest as you settle a little further into your pillow.

"Night Santana," you say softly into the darkness and she tilts her head towards you for a brief moment before turning away again.

"Goodnight Brittany."

* * *

You feel a strange sense of déjà vu when for the second time in three days you wake up in an unfamiliar bed, and you feel a weird ache when you realize you are alone. You guess it's better than having Rachel practically pressed up against your face, so you try not to feel too disappointed as you stretch your body and scrunch your eyes shut even tighter. You suppose you woke up because you _seriously_ need to pee, so you push yourself from the bed and make a dash for the bathroom, the cold wood of the floor making you want to spend as little time on your feet as possible.

You're ready to run back and dive under the covers the moment you're done, forgoing any plans to locate Santana, when harsh but hushed voices catch your attention and you pause. The noise is coming from the kitchen, and though your feet feel like ice-blocks, your curiosity gets the better of you and you walk towards the sound floating through the tiny gap where the door has been left ajar. You stop just outside and you hear Rachel's voice first, her words clear and intelligible now that you're closer.

"-unbelievable, Santana! I can't believe you haven't told her!"

"It didn't exactly come up," you hear Santana mumble, and you try to rid your brain of the remaining cobwebs of sleep so you can concentrate on the conversation taking place, because it sounds important.

"Bullshit-"

"What was I supposed to say? It's not like I could just drop it into conversation. You know what she's like, she would have gotten all weird and awkward about it and we're supposed to be having fun."

Santana sounds exasperated and your chest feels tight and uncomfortable. Are they talking about you? They must be. You probably shouldn't be listening to this - you should walk away…

"This stopped being about _fun_ a while ago and you know it."

"Don't pretend you have some sort of inside scoop on what's going on here Rachel, because you don't know anything about it."

"Maybe not, but I'm not blind either. You're playing with fire here Santana, and someone's going to get hurt. If not all of you."

All of you…?

"I haven't done anything wrong." Santana sounds defensive and a little irritated and you wonder if Rachel realises that backing the girl into a corner tends to end badly.

"Yeah well if you really believed that then you wouldn't be asking me to _lie_ for you."

"I'm not asking you to lie, I'm asking you not to mention it."

There's a pause before Rachel speaks again and the argumentative tone of her voice has been replaced by an ominous one. It makes you nervous.

"She's going to find out."

"Look, I'll tell her okay. I just need to figure out how to do it the right way. I mean how am I supposed to explain something I don't even understand myself?"

"You don't have to explain everything, just be honest about what's been going on."

There's another pause, then a sigh.

"Fine, I'll sort it out. Just _please_ don't say anything until I do."

"Santana-

"_Please_, Rachel."

"Okay! Okay. I won't say anything." She stops and you guess that's the end of the conversation. You start to back away from the door quietly, afraid you might be caught eavesdropping, but Rachel's next words catch your attention and stop you dead in your tracks. "I think you need to talk to Brittany too," she says, and the corners of your mouth turn downwards into a frown – isn't that exactly what they've been discussing this whole time?

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she kept asking me questions about Quinn yesterday so I guess that's another conversation you conveniently forgot to have."

"Look, could you cut me some slack? This isn't exactly easy for me," Santana says and you can hear her voice break. She sounds like she might cry, and it pulls at something deep inside you.

"Hey – look," Rachel starts and her voice is as soft as you've heard it since you secretly joined this conversation. "You know I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I just… I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"It's probably a little late for that now, don't you think?"

You choose this as your moment to walk away, you've heard enough and you're swamped in your own confusion. There is a lingering feeling, prickly and overwhelming, that _you_ are going to be that person - the one that gets hurt – you just don't know how or why or when.

You retreat back to the bedroom quickly and climb back under the sheets, shivering from your short journey out into _real-life_. You pull the covers up to your chin and shut your eyes with a sigh, well aware that sleep is beyond you now. Instead, you're going to lie here and rehash every single last word of the conversation you just heard. Maybe you'll replay every moment you've shared with Santana the past few days so you can dwell on every last touch or look or smile. Because that's just how you roll. Seriously, what is the matter with you?

You hear the floorboards creak after a minute or two as Santana moves back into the room and pauses next to the bed. You want to turn and look at her but you force your body still and your breathing even. You wish more than anything that she would clamber in and wrap herself around you like she used to, like she was your own personal blanket. You feel the mattress dip and you anticipate the contact even though you know it won't come, and you hate the familiarity of the feeling that grips at your chest as you lie feeling cold and alone despite the warm body just behind you. You could turn over. You could look into her eyes and wrap her tight in your embrace. But maybe she doesn't want you to. Maybe it's not _appropriate_. Maybe it's not your job anymore.

Maybe you don't have the courage to find out.

Maybe you will tomorrow?


	7. Chapter 7

You lie there for over an hour, eyes shut tight and mind whirring. Santana lies behind you still; she shuffles about every now and again and you sense from her breathing that she is no more asleep than you are. You wonder momentarily what kind of thoughts run through her mind, what troubles her these days. You're broken from the train of thought with a start when your phone beeps and vibrates on the wooden floorboards at the side of the bed. Santana shifts behind you and your stomach sinks because you don't need to reach for your phone to know who it is that is texting you.

You open your eyes, feeling suddenly a bit queasy and you lean over the side of the bed and unlock the screen so it displays the words you're not exactly excited to read.

_hey, how was ny? havnt heard fro few days, wanna hang out later? Xx_

You sigh – you completely forgot you had told Sam you would be home on Sunday. He had been annoyingly understanding about your desire to visit Santana in New York though you could see that slight hint of fear in his eyes when you told him of your plans. You may have lied and told him it was Santana's idea that you visit, but you're not really sure why.

You type a quick response out with one hand while the other remains warm and tucked underneath your body.

_i'm actually staying here a bit longer, so much to catch up on! hope u have a fun spring break, call when im back x_

You flick the side-button on your phone that switches it to silent and roll on to your back. You feel bad - you're kind of blowing him off and you realize with a lurch of guilt that it's not even close to the first time you've done that recently. Truth be told you haven't exactly been feeling it lately, you haven't for a while, but you haven't done anything about it either. You keep telling yourself you should give this thing a chance.

You care for him, you know that much is true. You enjoy spending time with him; it's easy and it makes you feel a little less alone. He's cute and kind and you should feel happy. Something feels… _off_ though, and the more time that passes and the closer you get to graduation and to your future, the more apparent it becomes to you. You think he's starting to fall in love with you and the thought makes you feel _uncomfortable_, not excited.

So you put off spending time with him, and you immerse yourself in textbooks, and you try to ignore the disappointed looks and texts he sends your way and you know you need to do something about this soon. But right now, you're way too confused about the things happening here in New York to dwell much on the confusions that await you back home.

You tilt your head to the side a little and notice Santana is lying on her side facing you, and she offers you a small smile when you look at her properly. You shift and move to mirror her position, drawing the covers around yourself to fight the way your body is breaking out in goosebumps. Thoughts of any blonde evaporate from your brain.

"Hey," she croaks quietly and you tell her _hey_ back.

"How long have you been awake?"

"A while," she says after a careful pause. Her eyes search every inch of your face as she lays watching you, and it's as if she is looking for something, some secret or truth that she hasn't quite figured out yet. When she opens her mouth to speak though, there is no sound, just hesitation and a sad smile.

She leaves to go for a shower and you wonder at all the things you know, and all the things you don't.

* * *

When you decide you can't stay in bed any longer you wander into the living room and find Rachel, sitting on the floor flicking through photos which - to your eyes - are just several near identical headshots of herself. She's smiling like a maniac at the camera in each and every one of them and they don't look all that dissimilar to the old yearbook photos of her you used to happily deface. The thought amuses you a little and brings a smile to your face.

She looks up when she hears you and smiles back but it's not quite as bright as it usually is and when you nod at the photos in her hand she mumbles something about _the perfect shot_ and pulls a notepad towards her to start scribbling notes.

You take up a spot on the sofa opposite her and you would be quite content to sit and quietly watch but Rachel speaks without even looking up from her notepad and her voice is a little higher than normal.

"What happened to you last night?" she asks and pauses her writing to wait for your answer and you take your time because you have a feeling you're about one wrong word away from a fully-fledged Rachel Berry inquisition.

"I didn't want to wake you up," you say with a light tone and it's then that she looks up at you. She sighs and draws her lower lip into her mouth to chew on it and you mimic her sigh. "Just say it, Rachel."

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you're obviously dying to say." She looks mildly affronted for a moment before feigning ignorance and you narrow your eyes. She hesitates a little before speaking again.

"You know I'm only looking out for you, right?" she asks and you're a little confused because you weren't aware you needed someone to look out for you. You're about to tell her that, politely, when Santana walks into the room dressed in only a fluffy white towel and any words you were thinking of saying die in your throat. Rachel just tuts in Santana's direction.

"You know I bought you that robe for a reason, Santana."

"Yeah well as much as I appreciate the gesture, violent pink isn't really my shade."

You're still not quite capable of speech and it's silly; it's not like a towel is any more revealing than the dresses you're used to seeing Santana in on a daily basis, but there is just something about the way the droplets of water run down her skin and disappear to places you can't see. You bite your tongue and Santana moves to stand behind Rachel and scoffs.

"Seriously? I thought you were joking about this," she says with her nose wrinkled as she looks down at the photos of Rachel.

"I think it's a nice personal touch…"

"I think it will scare off all the guests." When Rachel doesn't answer, Santana just rolls her eyes and continues. "Only you would have your own birthday cake made with a photo of yourself plastered all over it. Shotgun your nose, I don't wanna get stiffed on cake portions."

"If you're not careful I will revoke your invite entirely…"

"You can't, I've already bought your present."

Rachel perks up immediately at that and smiles brightly.

"Really?" she asks and she sounds both surprised and delighted.

"Really. And no I'm not telling you what it is. It's just something small, don't get excited or anything."

Santana huffs and Rachel's smile just grows bigger. Suddenly she turns and focuses on you, and she sounds so excited when she tells you she's glad you'll be here for it and you look back and forth between her and an amused Santana and tell her _great_. You didn't even know Rachel's birthday was coming up, and you suppose now you'll have to find her a present, though God knows what. Maybe you'll steal one of her photos and have it put onto a mug, or a t-shirt or something…

"I didn't exactly bring any party clothes," you say and Santana assures you that you can borrow something of hers. You decline of course, because if those dresses look short even on her, then you have no desire to have your ass hanging out for a bunch of musical theatre geeks to perve on.

"We can go shopping and get you something," Rachel tells you as Santana mutters to herself about how her dresses are _always_ a respectable length.

"What's the plan?" you ask excitedly, because you've been so focused on school these past few months that partying has fallen a little by the wayside, and you're pretty keen to get back to strutting your stuff and generally owning any dance floor you step onto.

"Tomorrow night. It will just be a small get-together," Rachel starts and Santana snorts, "Some of my friends from NYADA, some of the relatively less crazy neighbours, a few people from Santana's work."

"…Kurt's gay boyband friends…" Santana continues and Rachel shoots her a look. You're a little surprised at the lack of former or current Glee club kids, though you guess it's a long way to travel for a lot of them. Most of them anyway…

"Is Quinn coming?" you ask before you even think to approach the subject a bit more delicately and Rachel's smile fades a little as she looks at Santana who is inspecting her nails with a little too much attention.

"Eh.. I think she is planning to, yes…" she says and you nod. Surprisingly the news doesn't fill you with as much dread as you thought it might. If anything, you'll feel a little better when Quinn is actually in your sights and you can keep an eye on her. Anyway, it's _you_ who woke up in Santana's bed this morning, not her, and the thought is strangely comforting, for now.

"Cool," you say just to say something, and Santana excuses herself to go and get dressed but not without a slightly worried backward glance to see if you really are _cool_. Rachel smiles at you awkwardly from the floor and the room descends into a slightly uncomfortable silence until she speaks again.

"Is that alright?" she asks and you just shrug.

"Of course," you say, because it's _her_ birthday and she is allowed to invite whomever she likes. Maybe Quinn has more of a right to be here than you do when it comes to Rachel, even though you're starting to grow closer by the day. She looks at you for a long time, and you sense she doesn't quite know what to say.

"I'll look out for you," she blurts eventually and you feel your heart tugging at her words, "I'm here for you, if you need me." She stands and dusts off her jeans before making her way over to you and stopping in front of you. She places a hand on your shoulder as you look up at her, and gives it a quick squeeze before retreating to her bedroom and leaving you alone again.

You think maybe you've never given Rachel Barbra Berry anywhere near enough credit.

* * *

When Santana re-emerges dressed in a pair of tight cream jeans and a loose black sweater top, she glances around the room for Rachel before moving closer, taking a seat on the sofa next to you. You're flicking through a magazine but you're not really taking anything in and you can barely even muster up enough interest to enjoy the scandalously hot holiday photos of Jennifer Lawrence. There has been a thought plaguing your mind ever since the overheard conversation of this morning and you decide to voice it, knowing it will just eat away at you if you don't.

"Quinn doesn't know that I'm still here, does she?"

Santana stares at you for a moment, expression unchanged, and shakes her head softly. "Not exactly, no."

"Why not?"

She looks taken aback by the question and you wonder silently if she'll fob you off with an excuse or try to change the subject.

"I thought it might upset her," she says carefully though, and it's strikingly honest of her. It's more truth than Rachel got from her this morning, and you're grateful for it. Maybe she was affording you the same leniency, by not telling you about Quinn before. You _want_ to know though, and quite frankly it's time you talked about it. You're tired of dancing around one another and fed up of letting your mind fill in all the blanks.

"What's going on between the two of you?"

You manage to keep your tone just on the right side of insanely jealous ex-girlfriend and mentally pat yourself on the back for it.

"I-" she starts but falters, looking entirely troubled at the direction of the conversation.

"Are you together?"

"No. I mean…" She closes her eyes. "I don't really know what we are to be honest, we haven't talked about it." She hesitates like she's not sure whether to follow through with her next words, but she goes ahead reluctantly anyway. "It's complicated."

You stare at her in anticipation, though you feel kind of dazed, like you're not really even sitting here having this conversation. "Santana…" You start and she looks at you like she doesn't know what to do with herself. "I need to know." Your voice is pleading, and her jaw tightens.

"What do you want to know?"

Everything?

"How did this even happen?"

Santana looks possibly more uncomfortable than you've ever seen her.

"I don't know, it just kind of…did." At your look, she continues. "We were at the wedding - Quinn was being weird and flirty and talking about how much she hated men. She kept dropping these little hints and I wasn't sure if she meant them or if she was just trying to cheer me up but I was drunk so I went with it. We were dancing, and then she asked if I wanted to go to her room…"

You feel bile rising in your throat and you have to look away, taking in a deep breath to clear your lungs and head.

"It didn't even occur to me that it might not be the best idea. I was drunk and lonely and it was the most attention I had gotten from anyone in a really long time. Attention that wasn't just leering or smarmy chat-up lines. Attention that actually felt _good_."

You guess that makes sense. You could have given her attention though. Maybe not the exact type of attention Quinn gave her…

"Everyone at the wedding was so loved-up and you… you looked so happy. I kept remembering last Valentine's Day - how different everything was, how happy we were. I just wanted to feel _something_." Your head snaps back up at the words.

"And did you?"

She hesitates. "Did I what?"

"Feel something. With Quinn."

You don't know why you ask the question - you're almost certain you won't like the answer. She stares at you for a long moment before she answers and maybe that answers the question in itself. You're not sure if it's fair for you to even ask, but you're trying to be _friends_ now, and this is the kind of information _friends_ share.

"It was different," she settles on eventually and you grimace at her words. Yeah, you're not just friends.

"Different?" Her eyes don't leave yours as she shrugs at your question. "Different how?" you push and she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"What do you want Brittany, a play-by-play?"

Definitely not. You don't need one – the images swirling round your head are vivid and upsetting enough as it is without adding more substance to them.

"No. I want to know how you feel."

"Yeah well if I knew that I'd tell you."

You feel kind of frustrated. You don't exactly begrudge her for being confused about her feelings but you feel like you need more from her - more than she's giving you. Not that she needs to explain herself to you, because she doesn't, you just really need to understand.

"What happened after the wedding?" Your voice is quiet, and she shrugs again.

"I thought it might be awkward but it wasn't. Like, it wasn't a big deal at all. We just kind of started hanging out." You stare at her to continue, because that doesn't exactly explain how they got to this point, and you think from the way she is chewing her lip she knows she needs to get to that.

"Hanging out? It's a bit more than that though, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," she concedes, dropping her gaze into her lap.

"I just… I don't get it. It feels like five minutes ago I was breaking up a slap fight between you and now you're…whatever you are."

"Quinn and I have always had a bit of a rocky relationship though. I mean, okay, we fight and bicker and wind each other up but it's always been that way. And honestly? It makes me feel kind of alive and I've felt so numb for months."

You can definitely identify with that. You don't hold it against her.

"We're not who we were anymore. Any of us. I just… Everything has changed so much these past few months. I left home, and then I left college, and now I'm in New York living with these people I didn't even like two years ago. It's a lot."

You guess she kind of has a point.

"Don't get me wrong I love it here, I do. I even like living with Berry and Hummel. But they both have their own lives – they have school and friends and the odd boy-toy now and again. They're so much more put together than I am. Having Quinn around… I dunno. It's comforting. Everything in my life now is so different and overwhelming and I needed something constant. Something familiar."

You feel tears stinging at your eyes. You didn't even know she felt this way – to you she's always been strong and fiercely independent even through all the doubts and vulnerabilities. The thought of her feeling so small and alone is hard to take. You should have been the constant - the familiar face - but you couldn't be while you were stuck in Lima, and its so frustrating. Her eyes are beginning to look glassy too, and you wonder who will be the first to break.

"It's so easy to feel lost out here Britt," she whispers and her voice waivers for the first time. "Sometimes you just need something to hold on to."

A tear does fall now, just one, because you get it. You wish you didn't, but you do. You know all about feeling lost – it's the very reason you grew closer to Sam following your failed graduation and the same reason you clung to him in the wake of your break-up. This thing with Quinn feels different somehow though, and you're not sure why.

The lone teardrop streaking its way down your cheek seems to stir something in her, and she shifts a little closer and lands a hand on your knee. You shut your eyes tightly for a moment before you quickly wipe at your eyes to mop up any other tears threatening to make themselves known and you exhale long and hard through your mouth.

"I'm glad you're not alone anymore," you manage to choke out, and you meet her eyes and see teartracks to match your own on her beautiful face. It doesn't matter really how you feel about Quinn; you _never_ want Santana to feel lost or alone. It doesn't soothe your jealousy, but it does help you to find some reason in this crappy situation. "I guess it's just strange," you sniffle, "I was always the one that got to be there for you, and now it's someone else. Now it's a different friend."

"I-" she starts and furrows her eyebrows and frowns at you as she stutters, "It's not the same Brittany." You think that she's trying to tell you something but you're not really sure what it is, because you've never been all that great at reading between the lines. "Nothing could ever-" she tries but she takes a deep breath before she can continue. "It isn't like it was with us," she finishes and you feel some of the weight you've been carrying lift from your chest at her words.

You take a moment to compose yourself before you ask the question that is more important than any of the others you have asked her today.

"Are you happy?"

She tilts her head and sniffs, looking up to the ceiling for a quick moment before she looks back at you.

"I'm getting there, I think. But Britt, I'll _always_ be happiest with you in my life."

And at that, the weight lessens a little more.

"Are you happy?" she mimics, and the answer is both yes and no and you're not actually sure which one to go with.

"I'm getting there," you say with a smile, partly to cause the gorgeous but quiet laugh that escapes her lips, but mostly because you think – you hope - it's the truth.

She leans forwards and wraps you in a hug so tight it feels like your circulation might be cut off and it's not absolutely everything that you need from her in this moment but it's somewhere close so you return the embrace with equal force.

When you pull back and rest your foreheads together, gazing at each other in a moment so intimate it makes you shiver, you're reminded so clearly that this is all that you want. You've never wanted anything as much as you want Santana. And it won't be the first time you've had to wait for it, but you will.

You just hope that she _wants_ as much as you do.

You hope that it's still _you_ that she wants.


	8. Chapter 8

If you're being completely honest with yourself, you've been on edge for most of the night. It's only 9pm and Quinn isn't even _here_ yet but you've spent a lot of your time keeping the front door within your line of sight, neck craning every time you catch sight of it moving, nerves bubbling only to sink again when it's just another someone that you don't recognize. Rachel has dragged you about the apartment, introducing you to various all-american looking boys and girls with perfectly-toned bodies, and in fairness, they all seem quite nice. You can talk about dance with anyone for hours and while your knowledge of musical theatre doesn't so much as scratch Rachel's, you can make small-talk with the best of them.

Santana has been buzzing around you too; ensuring you have a drink in your hand at all times and making sure you're not left alone in awkward conversations. She chats and charms and moves around the place with such a graceful ease that it's completely enchanting. You know the confidence she projects isn't entirely her own nor is it entirely true – but she's wearing it more comfortably than she ever has and you _notice_.

You stand with her and the pretty brunette from her work – who you now know to be called Kate – and who you are regaling with tales of Santana when she was younger that have her giggling and Santana pouting and rolling her eyes. It's probably the first moment since you've arrived that you could really picture yourself here, spending time with Santana and her friends, hanging around in New York lofts sipping at beers and enjoying the hum of noise around you.

You realise you're daydreaming when Santana nudges you with a playful elbow and you smile at her, knocking your bottle against her cup in _cheers_, because, well, you can. You're feeling a bit silly, and a bit tipsy, and you're just really enjoying being here in this moment. Kurt wanders across to your group and stops just short to appraise you, looking you up and down before clapping his hands together and nodding.

"I must say Brittany, you are looking _fabulous_ this evening," he says and you smile - cause yeah, you know you look good - but it's always nice to hear it from someone else. You've opted for a floaty, sequinned cream dress that shows off a _whole lotta leg_, a faded dark denim jacket and black socks that stop just above the knee. You, Santana and Rachel had spent the entire day shopping, and while they had bickered like an old married couple about the merits of a dress versus a playsuit, you had gravitated towards the first short, sparkly garment you had spotted.

Santana grins in approval at Kurt's compliment and dusts off your shoulder as if you're some sort of pimp, and you tilt your head and do a little curtsy.

"You know, I interned for Vogue," Kurt starts as he comes to stand next to you, and Santana rolls her eyes, "but I don't think I've ever seen anyone pull off knee-high socks quite as well as you do."

"Yeah well they're _mine_, so don't get any ideas Hummel," Santana warns, eyeing Kurt suspiciously over the rim of her cup.

"The socks or the legs?" Kurt asks with a mischievous glint in his eye, and Santana nearly chokes on her rum. "What's wrong Santana? Afraid I'll look better in them than you?"

"Not a chance Lady Lips. It was bad enough that time I caught you borrowing a pair of my heels. Stay away from my drawers," she warns, waggling a threatening finger in his direction. Kurt holds his hands up and grins and you smile as you lean across to wipe lipstick from the side of Santana's mouth where she smudged it during her little coughing fit. She jumps a little at the contact but smiles at you affectionately anyway as you rub the red color between your thumb and index finger.

"Have you seen Rachel?" Kurt asks, his voice dropping as he speaks through the side of his mouth. The whole group glances over to where a small group has formed to watch the birthday girl as she does a body shot off of a hairless male dancer.

"Gross." Santana grimaces, surveying the scene. "She's not even doing it right."

"You would know," Kurt challenges.

"Naturally," she replies, shooting you a quick wink which you return with a grin. "Do I need to keep an eye on her? I think we both know Berry _cannot_ handle her liquor."

Kurt watches Rachel take another shot and purses his lips.

"Just keep her off the tables and make sure she doesn't start shedding clothing…"

* * *

As the night wears on you lose yourself and forget all your concerns, so when the door slides open to reveal a familiar head of perfect blonde hair, you suddenly wish you were a little more sober. She moves into the loft tentatively and Kurt is the first to spot her, meandering his way through the crowd and causing a look of relief to flood Quinn's face as he reaches out to place a hand on each of her arms so he can regard her fully before pulling her into a hug. Your eyes flick to Santana who is still entranced in her conversation with Kurt's _man-friend_ Thomas and then back to Quinn who is now enduring what looks like a full-body assault from Rachel, and you'd be surprised if she can even breathe in Rachel's vice-like grip.

You don't know why you shift aside a little to merge with a small group of people and better camouflage yourself from the people you now watch. You assume Quinn will have been told of your presence by now, although you haven't actually asked about it again, so you're not _hiding_ as such. You just want this vantage point, where they can't see you and hopefully won't censor themselves because of your presence.

She shrugs her coat off and hands it to Rachel, and you take a quiet moment to look her over carefully, noting how different she looks to you now, armed with all your new knowledge. The lines of her face look harder and her smile looks harsher to you but you are big enough to admit that she looks beautiful in the strapless navy blue dress that fits the curves of her body better than anything you've seen her wear before. Her hair looks a darker blonde than it used to be, and it's pulled up in a loose bun, her ears adorned with sparkling diamond earrings that make her teeth look impossibly whiter when she speaks.

Rachel bends down and picks up the overnight bag that you've only just noticed sitting by Quinn's feet and you watch her excuse herself to take it, and the coat, across the living area and into Kurt's bedroom where all the other coats are being kept. Santana still hasn't seen Quinn, but Quinn has very much seen Santana, and she wastes no time in squeezing past Kurt and creeping up behind the smaller girl before wrapping her arms round her waist and dropping her chin to the curve where Santana's neck meets her shoulder.

If you were expecting Santana to be surprised at the sudden invasion of her personal space then you were wrong, and her hands smooth along the length of the arms wrapped round her before settling on top of them as she smiles softly and tilts head into blonde hair. Something is said that causes both of them to chuckle and Santana turns round to face Quinn and pulls her into a proper hug, their bodies pressing fully into one another for far longer than a casual hug is supposed to last for. Santana pulls back first and distances herself suddenly - to Quinn's slight confusion, you see - and glances quickly round the room, and your heart speeds up because you know she's looking for you.

When she doesn't find you – you duck even further into the crowd of people you were half-hidden behind – she pulls Quinn by the hand across the room and towards Kate, who smiles broadly in recognition before wrapping Quinn in what must be her fourth tight hug in as many minutes. Santana leans in to whisper something in Quinn's ear before walking off and towards the kitchen, but not before leaving a lingering touch on the small of Quinn's back.

You wait a beat before following as inconspicuously as you can, and you down the remnants of your beer as you go, walking into the kitchen under the pretense of needing another drink. You don't disturb Santana who is now mixing three rum and cokes on the counter and you busy yourself by looking into the refrigerator and squinting at the bottles of beer, taking a disproportionate amount of time deciding which one to grab. Someone knocks into you as they walk past and you apologize even though they don't, and Santana must recognize your voice because she glances up from her drinks to look over at you.

"Britt! There you are, I was looking for you," she says brightly, and you're not sure an anxious glance around the room really qualifies, but you don't say anything and you straighten up and smile at her, shutting the refrigerator door behind you.

"Do you want a drink?" she asks gesturing to the cups on the counter and you hold the bottle in your hand up in reply.

"I'm good, thanks."

Your head is swimming a little in alcohol and so you struggle somewhat to decipher the look on her face as she tilts her head to beckon you closer, but you move towards her anyway, and you come to a stop leaning your hip against the counter. She scrunches her nose and lifts her shoulders in a cute shrug and you just grin at her dorkiness as she returns to pouring her drinks, taking great care to get the rum to coke ratio _just right_.

"So Quinn's here," she remarks offhandedly like she's commenting on the weather, and you wonder if it's the alcohol making her words loose and tone casual or if being flippant is the only way she can think to deal with this strange situation. You tense a little even though you're well aware Quinn is here, and you rack your beer-pickled brain for something appropriate to say but the only thing you manage to come up with is _oh_.

She frowns at you and you curse yourself because your plan had been to make this as non-awkward as possible and now she's trying to think of something to say to you and you actually kind of wish she wouldn't bother. She opens her mouth to speak and you interrupt her instinctively, saying the first thing that comes into your brain.

"Do you guys have ice?"

She looks at you oddly and you don't blame her. Ice, _really_? Her eyes flick down to the bottle of beer in your hands before slowly returning to your face, and with a quirked eyebrow she tells you that, funnily enough, it's in the freezer.

"Cool, just checking for later," you say lamely and nod awkwardly, as she turns her body round to face you fully. She chews her lip as she watches you carefully and you find yourself getting lost in her stare.

"You could come say hi," she says softly, bringing a hand to rest on your folded arms, and your eyes widen and your eyebrows probably disappear into your hairline. You shuffle uncomfortably under her gentle gaze and you shake your head without even really thinking about it.

"Maybe later," you say, and she doesn't push. You think you see her intention; you used to own the parties you attended in High School, the three of you together, the all-conquering and smoking hot Unholy Trinity. But things have changed, and you know she knows this, so you're a little surprised she even entertains the thought that the three of you could stand around and make small-talk so soon after the change in dynamic that's occurred. You don't know if it's selfish of her to want it, or if it's selfish of you to refuse it, so you try not to think on it any longer and you resign yourself to the knowledge that you will have to speak to Quinn again at some point.

You see Rachel appear in the room from the corner of your eye and you find a small smile, because her hair is askew and her eyeliner is a little smudged, and she at least looks like she's having an awesome birthday. She shuffles over with a smirk and opens her arms wide before draping them around the two of you and allowing her weight to rest on your shoulders as she looks between you.

"Guuuuyyysss, come back out, we've got tequila!" she slurs, and when she boops Santana on the nose you think she's probably lucky not to lose a finger. She slaps you both on the ass and whirls around, ignoring the shriek of surprise from Santana, before throwing her arms in the air as she walks away.

"Shots!"

You chuckle and shake your head as you move to follow her, Santana trudging reluctantly behind you as she tries to balance three cups in her hands. You go to grab one before she spills the entire lot down her insanely tight black dress and when you emerge from the kitchen properly all the attention of the room is focused in your direction because of your position behind Rachel who is now addressing the party at large.

You're immediately aware of the way Quinn's eyes find you, and you forget she hasn't seen you yet this evening. Her easy smile falters for all of a second when she sees you standing with Santana, before it's back in place as she turns to resume her conversation with Kate as if she hasn't seen you at all. You glance across towards Santana who has placed her drinks down on a nearby table and is now trying to wrestle what looks a lot like a karaoke microphone from Rachel's grasp, with limited success.

"Rachel, no!"

"We should do a duet Santana!"

"Give me the microphone!"

Both girls are distracted and so neither notice the way Kurt creeps over and subtly unplugs the Playstation from the wall and sends you a knowing smirk, as you see Rachel actually jump on to Santana's back and the pair whirl round before collapsing on the sofa in giggles.

* * *

The evening passes by in a blur of dancing and drinking and you're actually having the best time you can remember having in ages. Not a single one of those NYADA kids can touch your dance moves, and you've already taught Kate and a number of other party-goers the moves to _Single Ladies_. You had clapped and sung and hollered when Santana brought Rachel's cake out, and though your slice depicted Rachel's ear, you had scoffed it anyway.

You spend a lot of your time with Kurt and Thomas - who it turns out is a really funny guy, and a lot less camp and obnoxious than you had expected for a Kurt-boyfriend. Santana moves around the party as easily as before, only now she has an annoying blonde shadow, and the pair haven't stopped giggling for over an hour. You suspect that it's partly for show - at least on Quinn's part - or more like you hope so, because the alternative feels bittersweet in the worst possible way.

Seeing Santana truly happy will always be the single most important thing to you, but you had never really afforded much thought to the idea that you wouldn't always be the one to make it so. The sight of her smiling has always made your entire world feel a little brighter, a little warmer, and you've always made it your mission to see that smile whenever you can. It shouldn't really matter _who_ it is that makes her happy, and if you were completely selfless you could happily accept Quinn as the reason, but you're not perfect and the notion really stings.

You can't miss the way that Quinn needlessly paws at Santana under the pretense of being drunk and you don't miss the fact that Santana doesn't seem to mind. You don't think it's really necessary for Quinn to get quite so close when she speaks to Santana, either. It spikes your annoyance, but you distract yourself with alcohol and dancing, and you ignore the indistinguishable glances Santana shoots your way when you innocently dance a little too closely with anyone.

It must be near midnight when you find yourself locked in a boring conversation with some male model, nodding every few seconds though you have _no idea_ what he's talking to you about. You've already sent several desperate _save me_ looks Kurt's way but he is too busy fawning over his man-candy as they sit curled up on the sofa, and you silently curse the pair of them. Your eyes do catch a familiar face moving through the crowd though, and you direct your next plea for respite towards a smirking Kate, who comes across quickly and grabs your hand.

"Hey!" she says, before turning to your companion. "Mind if I borrow Brittany for a second? I need her advice on a girly matter," she says, nodding her head seriously.

Calvin, or Cameron, or whatever his name is, just nods with wide eyes and before you can offer up so much as a _see you later_ you're being dragged through the now packed loft. You're so relieved to be rescued that you notice just a moment too late where it is you're being taken, and by the time you're standing in a small group with Quinn and a guy you recognize as Santana's other co-worker, it's too late to do anything about it.

"Oh hey, Brittany right? My name's Danny, I work with Santana," he says smiling, and you shake his hand briefly, keeping your eyes trained on his face.

"You guys must have gone to school together, right?" Kate asks suddenly, glancing between you and Quinn with interest. Neither of you seem particularly keen to make eye contact, or to even acknowledge each other, but the silence in the wake of the question feels a little oppressive so you feel the need to speak.

"Yeah. We were in Cheerleading and Glee Club together, so…" you start but stop, not really sure what else to say. Should you mention that you used to consider Quinn one of your closest friends? Should you mention how you can barely look at her now without feeling a little nauseous?

"Brittany is Santana's ex."

Quinn glances upwards and meets your eyes as she says the words, and they fall from her tongue in such a matter-of-fact way that it would be easy to dismiss it as idle conversation. It's not though, and you know she's trying to unsettle you, and you can even make a reasonable guess at _why_. There's a weird sort of challenge in her look, and you wonder if she's seeking an argument, because you'll play the game if she likes. Her words or her tone don't appear to phase Kate though, who turns to you with a smile.

"Wait, so _you're_ the best friend!" she exclaims in your direction, "I can't believe I didn't make the connection before! Santana didn't shut up about you for weeks. You know, credit where it's due, you definitely live up to the hype."

You glance across to Quinn and you feel an odd sense of triumph; her jaw is tensing and her smile is tight as she quickly finishes the drink in her hand. Kate follows the line of your sight until her eyes land on Quinn, and her smile falters a little, like she's only just noticed the obvious tension between you. A brief look of recognition crosses her face and she shuts her eyes tightly for a brief moment before quickly changing the subject.

"So… Brittany, what is it you plan on doing after school?"

You don't get a chance to answer the question before Quinn speaks again, her patented Fabray smile already back on her face.

"Excuse me, I think I'll go get some air, it's really warm in here."

She walks away without hesitation and heads straight for the window that leads to the fire escape. You have no idea what possesses you, but before you can even think the action through, you're following her through the throng of people and watching from right behind her as she slides the window up and sits on the ledge, swinging her legs up and round as she drops onto the outside. The chill hits you instantly but you ignore the goosebumps prickling at your arms and you glance around the room to see if anyone else has seen Quinn leave. Kate and Danny have resumed their conversation, Kurt and Thomas have eyes for no-one but each other, and you can't see Santana or Rachel. You turn back to the window and follow quietly, mimicking Quinn's moves and sliding the window shut behind you with a quiet thud.

She stands with her back to you, arms folded and leaning on the railing as she looks out into the night air. You don't know if the alcohol has made you bold, but you cross the short space to stand beside her, your hands gripping onto the railing so tight they blanche a little. She doesn't acknowledge your presence at first, and you're reminded of the last conversation the two of you had, and _God_ it doesn't feel like it was only four days ago. You stand in silence; the only noise the muffled music coming from inside the party that drowns out the sound of night-time New York. You feel a little self-conscious, unsure of why you really came out here, when Quinn suddenly speaks.

"I lied before."

You turn your head to face her and note the way her voice isn't biting or harsh but quiet instead, and it throws you. You study her profile carefully; the glow from the streetlights bouncing off of her eyelashes and the loose wisps of her hair blowing slightly in the breeze.

"I wouldn't take back a single thing I've done, but I _am_ sorry for how this has all turned out."

You don't understand the sudden change in Quinn's mood, and you find yourself searching out the ulterior motive in her words, but you can't for the life of you figure it out. She glances across at you finally and notes the sceptical look on your face, frowning slightly.

"It's not like I set out to hurt your feelings, Brittany," she deadpans, and you sigh, because isn't that always the way.

"You knew it would, though."

She looks at you for a long moment, before turning back to look at the city again.

"Maybe."

Well at least that's honest. The silence stretches out for a minute or two more before she speaks up again.

"Why are you still here, Brittany?" she asks, and you can hear the sigh in her question.

"Do you really need me to answer that?" She closes her eyes and shakes her head, but not in answer to your rhetorical question.

"You can't do this, Britt. It's not fair to her." Her tone is pleading, and it makes you feel uncomfortable.

"Fair? Like Santana showing up in Lima without warning and trying to break up me and Sam?" Quinn turns and looks at you in confusion and you stand a little straighter. "What, she didn't tell you that bit?" Your tone is a little more mocking than you maybe intended, but she doesn't flinch.

"So it's tit for tat then? She tries to break up your relationship, you try to break up hers?"

"You're not in a relationship," you argue, and you can see that you've struck a nerve. You've figured out an obvious weakness, but you can't quite bring yourself to exploit it, because you know how horrible it feels to be unsure about the status of a relationship with Santana.

"That's not the point. You have no idea how long it's taken her to get to this place Brittany. We both know she puts up a good front, but she was all over the place a few months ago. She's finally looking _happy_ again, do you honestly want to ruin that?"

"Of course I don't," you say in annoyance, "I didn't come here to ruin anything. I _just_ want my best friend back."

"Is that true? Because I don't think it is," she replies with a shake of her head. "You're not even staying – you can pretend as much as you want, but in a few days you'll go back to Lima and she'll have to deal with missing you all over again."

"Yeah well it works both ways Quinn. You have no idea how hard it is to lose the person you're in love with _and_ your best friend at the same time."

"I know a thing or two about loss, Brittany," she says after a beat and you sigh, taking a careful step closer to her.

"Then you must understand what I'm doing here. I _miss_ her, Quinn. You can't expect me to stay away forever," you say softly. You watch as she seems to deflate a little, shaking her head and looking down to her feet.

"I'm not asking you to stay away forever. I just want you to give me a chance."

Her words hang heavily in the air between you, and you realize with a sharp sensation in your chest what it is that she's asking of you. You want to scream, you want to tell her _no way_, but the words don't come. You can't be selfish about this; you're not exactly in a position to be. You wonder if your feelings on the matter would even make a difference. Santana deserves to have whatever it is that she wants, and if it's Quinn, well then…

"Okay."

Quinn's head snaps up and she blinks at you in tentative confusion. She takes her time to speak.

"Okay?"

"Okay," you say shakily. "But Quinn, I'll always be in love with her. I won't be in Lima forever."

It's not meant as a warning or a threat, and you're relieved she doesn't take it that way. She just nods, still looking a little confused, and you both jump when you hear a thump and turn to see Rachel pressing a kiss up against the window, hands either side of her head. She looks absolutely sloshed, and you both laugh as you spot Santana dragging her backwards and away from the window. She watches both of you over Rachel's shoulder and she looks concerned, but you shoot her a soft smile and turn back to Quinn, who does exactly the same.

You stand a little awkwardly, sharing a look of quiet and reluctant understanding. She shivers, and you tell her to go back inside, and that you'll be back through in a minute. She hesitates, but leaves with a gentle touch to your arm that you fight the urge to shrug off.

Suddenly you feel horribly sober, and you take up the position Quinn had held looking out over the city. Despite all of the confusion and all of the uncertainty, you suddenly know exactly what you're going to do.

You need to go home, and you need to be honest with Sam, and break-up with him before he falls any further.

You're going to focus on your last few months of school, and you're going to graduate.

_And then,_ you're going to figure out a way to make it out here to New York. Permanently.


	9. Chapter 9

_-Quinn-_

* * *

Trying to pry open your eyes whilst suffering from yet another painful hangover is something that has always challenged you. It doesn't seem to matter how many times you suffer or how many times you tell yourself _never again_, inevitably you always end up back here; head pounding, stomach churning and body aching.

It's the gradual realization that you're not in your bed up in New Haven that has you slowly opening your eyes, blinking in protest at the light in the room. As you slowly regain consciousness you come to realize a number of things. The first, is that you lie sandwiched between Kurt and Thomas in a bed that looks suspiciously like that of a flamboyantly gay man, and you can only muster up mild annoyance at the way Kurt has obviously been trying to cuddle into you. Clearly he did not anticipate having you in his bed, and you wonder if you were invited or if you invited yourself. Probably the latter, you think, as you watch Thomas snore softly.

The second thing you notice is that you are still wearing last night's clothes, and though it's not the first time this has happened, usually when you wake up in this particular loft it's pyjamas or nothing much at all. Your thoughts shift to Santana who is no doubt passed out face down on her own bed, impossible to move and near impossible to wake. You wonder why you're not there with her, and you feel the beginning of panic fluttering in your stomach as you squint and desperately try to piece together the events of last night.

You remember cake – you remember Santana and Rachel smearing it on each other's faces and Rachel nearly combusting on the spot when Santana cheekily asked if she wanted to lick it off. You had offered in light of Rachel's refusal but Santana had just smiled and wiped it off herself as her eyes flickered around the room like she was looking for something.

You remember karaoke; well, with the machine unplugged and Rachel unable to locate the correct cord, not so much karaoke as just a Rachel Berry singalong. Or really, just Rachel standing on the sofa, belting along to Beyonce and attempting dance moves that you're surprised didn't result in a trip to Accident and Emergency.

You remember moving round the party attached at the hip with Santana, and you remember the feeling of being watched that came along with it. Brittany's eyes following you around the room had left you feeling equal parts guilty and exhilarated and it was only when you took the time to watch her expression more carefully that you found yourself pulling back a little as a result of the annoyance and sadness that was there.

You remember an awkward conversation with Santana's work friends and Brittany, and a passive-aggressive comment about Brittany being Santana's ex that had fallen from your lips without much thought. You remember Brittany following you to the fire escape like you knew she would, and you remember the defiance in her eyes when she told you she would be getting out of Lima.

You almost can't quite believe that you actually _asked_ Brittany to give you time and space to make a proper go of things with the ex-girlfriend she was so obviously still in love with. You weren't even really sure if that was what you wanted until you said the words out loud. You definitely find it hard to grasp the fact that Brittany had agreed to it, but there was conflict and something else in her eyes that suggested it was far from a green-light. It's not like you expected much else.

When you had returned to the party Santana had sought you out immediately, desperate to be assured that you and Brittany hadn't argued again. You had lied (a little) and told her you were just having a catch-up, but the way Santana's eyes continued to flicker towards the window suggested she probably didn't believe you. When Brittany had returned to the party looking somehow simultaneously resolute as well as a little lost and defeated, you knew Santana had wanted to go to her. You could see it in the way she was no longer focusing on her conversation with Kurt and the way her leg bounced up and down restlessly. But Brittany didn't make it difficult; she walked across and took up a seat next to you on the sofa, and you were so grateful for it.

And just like that, Brittany had sat and chatted and laughed with you all, as if nothing had changed. The effect on Santana was almost immediate, and you watched her settle and relax, the tension leaving her shoulders and the crinkles of her forehead smoothing.

The last thing your foggy brain remembers is drinking _a lot_. Then drinking some more. And now, now you wish you hadn't bothered drinking at all.

You slowly extricate yourself from the frankly garish sheets that cover Kurt's bed and shuffle down so you can stand without having to climb over anyone. You notice your own pair of pyjama shorts lying crinkled on the floor, as if you'd attempted to put them on and simply given up, and you kick them in the general direction of your bag before moving out into the living area. You're surprised there are no stragglers; you had half expected to find NYADA kids passed out across the sofas and on the floor, but all you can see is the carnage left behind from the night before.

You shuffle towards Santana's room - more out of habit than anything else - and slide in to find that, true to form, Santana is sprawled face down on her bed, sheets discarded from her body and covering a lump that looks suspiciously like a person on the other side of the bed. Your stomach flips slightly, but when you move closer you can see brown hair fanning out from beneath the covers, and it wouldn't be the first time a drunken Rachel Berry tried to get into Santana's bed rather than her own. Previous instances had resulted in a lengthy conversation about the importance of personal boundaries and some _very_ strict rules about drinking vodka as well as an _absolute_ ban on tequila. You're pretty sure Rachel flouted all of those rules last night, but at least she isn't spooning Santana like last time, so she may yet live to see the afternoon.

You hear a knock on the door, and you turn around from where you're standing at the side of the bed to see Brittany moving into the room carefully. She looks beyond tired but she has showered and changed, and she looks a little more like a functioning human being than you currently feel standing here in last night's dress and smudged make-up.

"You're up early," you mumble through a yawn, and groan as a wave of nausea washes over you.

"I couldn't really sleep."

You regard her carefully and think better of asking her why. She's shuffling on the spot like she's anxious about something, but she steps a little further into the room and comes to a stop just out of your reach. Her eyes are flickering between your face and Santana's sleeping form, and she chews on her lip.

"I think I'm gonna go," she says softly, and you frown.

"What, home? Now?"

"I think so. I was only really supposed to come here for the weekend. I have school work that needs done and I've already missed a bunch of Glee rehearsals, so…" she explains, and you're not really buying it. You know that the excuse of school work serves a multitude of purposes because you falsely used it yourself a matter of days ago, and you're pretty sure the New Directions lost at Regionals, so you can't imagine why they would need to rehearse in Spring Break.

"Brittany-"

"I'm doing what you asked, Quinn," she says, quiet but firm and with a more than a hint of warning. You tell yourself that it's okay to feel the way you feel, and to ask for the things you want, but the way Brittany looks at you makes it difficult to convince yourself. She glances to Santana and you decide to leave them alone so Brittany can say goodbye. The last thing you see before you exit the room is Brittany crouching down by the side of the bed and softly rubbing Santana's back to wake her, and you don't know how to interpret the awkward and unfamiliar feeling in your chest.

* * *

You have no idea how long it will take for Brittany to say her goodbyes, but you really don't want to hang around to watch them, so you've been pruning in the shower for almost half an hour now. The remnants of your hangover are lifting to be replaced by dread and a dull feeling of panic that makes staying locked in the bathroom seem the most appealing proposition for the day ahead.

You know that if Brittany doesn't tell Santana about the conversation the two of you shared last night, Santana will ask you anyway.

You wonder idly which one of you will be the first to bring up this _thing_ between you. You tell yourself it's casual, and that you're having fun, and that it doesn't need to be any more complicated than that. It is though, and you can't be the only one to notice it. There's a disconnect between the things that you allow yourself to openly want, and the terrifying feelings that you're bottling up, and you don't _want_ to feel this way anymore.

You don't want to feel like you need something from Santana, particularly not something you're pretty sure she can't give you. Because attention is one thing, and affection is another, but devotion is something different entirely. You know Santana loves you - of course she does - because you're _friends_, but there are days when sometimes that doesn't feel enough anymore, and it's unsettling. It's unsettling, because you do _need_, and it makes you feel weak.

You shut the water off and wrap yourself tightly in a towel, before walking towards Rachel's room, unwilling to return to Kurt's and too scared to re-enter Santana's. You grab a clean bathrobe from the closet and wrap yourself in it, shivering a little as you watch water droplets evaporate from your skin. When the door creaks open some ten minutes later and a bleary-eyed Rachel stumbles through, she looks only mildly startled to find you sitting on her bed, before diving headfirst into her pillows and groaning loudly.

"Good birthday?" you ask, your tone dripping in delight at the pained noises coming from the head of the bed.

She mumbles something incoherent before rolling on to her back with her eyes still shut tight.

"It feels like something died in my mouth," she winces, and you shudder, because - _gross_.

As much as you enjoy Rachel's _colorful_ descriptions of her hangovers, this isn't really the bed you want to be in, and so you get to the point.

"Is Santana awake?"

"Mmmm," she hums, and you assume that means yes. "Brittany left," she says after a moment of silence, and you knew you could count on Rachel to answer the unasked question. She opens her eyes and looks down at you, quirking an eyebrow. "What did you ask her?" You wrinkle your forehead at the question.

"Ask who?"

"Brittany. I heard you talking earlier." You freeze and your eyes widen as you are caught in Rachel's stare. "What did you ask her to do?" Rachel's voice isn't judgemental, but there is an edge to it that suggests she might already have a clue, and she might not like it. You don't answer her; your words are failing you and you have no idea how to explain what you said or more importantly _why_ you said it. She looks… worried.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Quinn."

You don't have the heart or the courage to tell her that you have no idea. You think she probably infers it from the terrified expression on your face.

"Don't break her," she warns, and it is _very much_ a warning, before she turns on her side and buries her head into her pillow. You take that as your cue to leave.

When you move back into Santana's room you see that she is now under her bed-sheets, curled up and staring off out and into space until she sees your figure by the door. When she glances at you you're relieved to see she hasn't been crying but she looks empty and vacant in a way that's disturbing.

You wonder silently what to do. You want to comfort her, because you've gotten pretty good at that – every time you're here and Santana has come home upset or grumpy after a crappy day, you could always fix it with a simple touch. Santana, despite how much she might protest otherwise, is a tactile person, and sometimes you know she just needs someone to hold her. But you've played the role as comforting friend and now you know things are more complicated. It doesn't help that you feel indirectly responsible for her sadness now. She just stares at you, through her thick long eyelashes, and you make your decision.

You cross the room and head for the dresser, slipping on a pair of your own sweatpants and a t-shirt that you had left here, before climbing into bed beside Santana. You reach out and hesitate, before you let a finger trail across her shoulder and down her back. She turns, slowly, and comes to face you with her arms bent and her hands resting just below her chin. She still hasn't spoken, and you realize you haven't either, and her gaze is haunting as it bores into you. Her face is mixture of conflict and barely disguised sadness, and you're not really sure how to feel about it.

You do the only thing you know how to do, and you reach out and clasp her wrist, pulling an arm away from her body and towards your own. She doesn't hesitate, and her eyes float shut with relief as she moves into your open embrace, but her arms are loose and limp as they wrap around you. You feel at ease when she shuffles down and turns her head so she can place it against your chest, and you content yourself to bury your nose in her hair.

There are no words, but you don't really need them, not right now. You feel anchored in a good way, and so you allow the feeling of want that never strays too far from the surface to consume you entirely. Just for now, you tell yourself.

* * *

It's nearly 2pm when Santana emerges from her bedroom properly, to find you curled on the sofa, watching reruns of Friends on the TV. Her hair is messy and annoyingly it only makes her look even more gorgeous standing in her shorts and baggy sweatshirt. She flops down onto the opposite end of your sofa and quickly clambers underneath the blanket you had been wrapped in.

"Well, well, well. I was wondering when you might join the land of the living," you say with a hint of amusement in your voice. Playful seems like your best option here, and the teasing is second-nature. You hope she'll meet you halfway, and you can avoid any awkward heart-to-hearts while your head still feels quite so fragile.

"Yeah well, this is your fault you know. I distinctly remember being practically spoon-fed tequila and it sure as hell wasn't my idea…"

"So what, _I'm_ a bad influence on _you_? Somehow, I don't think so Santana."

"Well you definitely were last night," she grumbles, and you nudge her gently under the blanket with your foot.

"Well it makes a change, usually it's you corrupting me," you grin with an eyebrow raised, and finally she cracks a smile.

"What can I say, it's a hobby. I always knew you had a wild side in there somewhere, Q."

She's wearing that smirk – the one that simultaneously makes you want to slap her and devour her all at the same time – and you roll your eyes and shift so she can stretch her legs out if she wants.

"I reserve it for special occasions," you mutter as you re-focus on the TV.

"I must be very special then…" she replies without hesitation and her voice is low and laced with temptation. She's more right than you'd like to admit, and you wonder if she even realizes. You don't trust yourself to speak, or to even really look at her, so you just smirk as you continue to stare at the television screen. You know it will drive her mad, and she_hates_ to be ignored, especially when she's getting her flirt on. It's a game you've played many a time, feigning your indifference, and you know her stubbornness will never let her drop it.

There's movement under the blanket and your breath catches when she stretches out and you feel the edge of her foot running up the length of your calf and sliding to settle underneath your upper thigh. Suddenly your entire body feels hyper-aware of her presence, and your head snaps across to her just as quickly as a shiver creeps up your spine. Her eyebrow is quirked in an unspoken challenge, and it's completely maddening.

Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if this is all just a game to Santana, just another competition to see which one of you can outdo the other and who will yield first. It's the paranoid Quinn Fabray of High School, who never entirely trusted Santana and who always questioned her motives, that fills your head with doubt. But then you've placed so much of your trust in her already, and she hasn't been reckless with it once.

"You have your moments," you manage, but it's barely above a whisper, and _God _why is that smirk of hers so damn enticing. Her foot moves an inch higher but her expression remains unchanged and you're vaguely aware of the way your chest is rising and falling with the breaths you're taking.

"Just moments?" she asks with dangerously dark eyes, and she pushes her other foot against your knee causing your legs to part just slightly. You think the next sound either of you hears will be the hint of a whimper that falls from your lips, but the sound is masked by the front door of the loft sliding open and then shut.

"Oh you're up. I thought you guys would still be in bed."

The voice belongs to Kurt, and it's never felt quite so unwelcome you think as you look over to see him idly flipping through a pile of mail as he stands only feet away from you.

The mask of confident seduction slides quickly from Santana's features, and you swear you see a flash of guilt - or is it regret - in her eyes as she quickly retracts her legs and pushes up of the sofa before heading for the kitchen. You're unable to do much other than blink stupidly at the space she just occupied until Kurt comes into your line of vision, his eyes narrowed.

"You know of all the moods I expected to find Santana in when I got home, frisky was not top of the list," he says, sitting down on an armrest and glancing off in the direction Santana disappeared to.

"I guess you don't know her like I do, then."

It's not particularly surprising to you that Santana would use (or, try to use) sex as a distraction, but the realization of it leaves you feeling considerably less sexy all of a sudden. You were probably a matter of seconds away from being another (very) willing victim of Santana's attempts to forget about the things she doesn't want to think about.

Santana returns with two bottles of Lucozade and chucks one to you before plonking herself down unceremoniously into her previous spot.

"I'm feeling pizza," she announces with an airy voice, and your eyes light up instantly.

"I thought _you_ were on a diet?" Kurt asks scandalized, and Santana just scoffs.

"Kurt, I've not eaten since yesterday and my blood is running pure alcohol. I'm in the mood to eat my own body-weight in dough and not give a fuck about it."

Kurt considers this for all of a moment before nodding seriously.

"Make mine a Hawaiian."

"You sure you wouldn't prefer the _Sausage Sensation_?"

"Oh how did you _know_?" Kurt says rolling his eyes dramatically and Santana sniggers, pleased with her own joke.

"What do you say, Q, double pepperoni to share? Shall we give it a bash?" she asks distractedly, not quite meeting your eyes.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

Oh, and you'll take her pizza too.


	10. Chapter 10

It's a strange feeling; waking up in your own bed after days spent in someone else's. It should feel familiar and comforting but it mostly just feels disorientating, but that could be due to the fact you've woken up tangled in a mess of sheets, head half hanging off of the bed and body contorted in a position that causes your whole body to ache. You groan and re-arrange your limbs so you're lying like a _normal_ person, and you sigh into the empty room.

It was well after midnight when you staggered in; fumbling at the light switch in your bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind you to lean against it. You don't even particularly remember the sequence of events that led to you making it from the door to your bed, let alone how you managed to change into pyjamas and remove the light traces of make-up you had worn for the day, but you're silently impressed at your own sensibility.

What a hellish journey home it had been. As if 14 hours on a bus wasn't bad enough, you had of course chosen the seat in front of the most hyperactive and irritating child you've ever come across, and your uncharged phone had crapped out only 2 hours into the journey. Attempts at sleep had proved pointless, and music just didn't have the same soothing effect when you were cramped up in a busy coach - unable to let loose your muscles and allow the music to wash over you like you usually might, when you would stretch and spin across a room to work out your tensions.

It had resulted in you being cranky and emotional by the time you arrived back in Lima, and you were kind of glad it was your Dad who came to pick you up from the bus station, knowing all too well he wouldn't ask you questions or make a fuss over the scowl you wore. Next time you're definitely flying.

Next time. They were her words, not yours, and the thought brings a smile to your face. When you told her you were leaving she accepted it with only a hint of a frown and she didn't ask you to stay, because you both knew the time would come where you'd have to leave. Neither of you wanted it to be this way - of that you felt sure - and she had insisted you come back to visit soon.

You can still remember exactly the way she felt when she stood to hug you goodbye, and you can still hear the sniffle that escaped her when you pulled back to see her forced smile and the way her glassy eyes couldn't quite meet yours. You had wanted to kiss her, and so you did, dropping a quick but soft peck to her lips, just the way she had done the last time you'd said goodbye. You could tell it had surprised her, and she had let out an unsteady breath as she gripped you a little tighter, like she was afraid you'd disappear if she let go. But you had to leave, and you both knew it.

You shake your head to banish the memories and roll gracelessly out of bed, trudging over to your duffel bag to retrieve your phone and plug it in, before heading downstairs to grab a glass of water. Your parents are out at work and the house is empty, and you find it unsettling; the loft always felt buzzing and busy in a good way, and you even miss Kurt's nattering and Rachel's morning singing. Maybe you can make plans to hang out with the others later. Maybe a shopping trip with Tina and Marley will distract you.

When you flop back down onto your bed and grab your phone you notice with a hint of surprise that you have 4 texts and 5 missed calls awaiting you, and you scroll through them looking at the names displayed; Dad, Rachel, Sam… It all feels pretty irrelevant when you realize that there are two texts from Santana, and you smile to yourself because she hardly_ever_ texts you these days. You open the first, sent an hour or so after you left New York-

_Hey. Hope the journey back is okay, call me when you get in so I know you're home safe x_

You frown a little as you read it, not sure of what you were expecting but feeling disappointed nonetheless. You remember with a flutter of hope in your stomach that there was another text, and you tap your fingers quickly to bring it up to the screen. It was sent nearly an hour after the first, and it makes your heart settle somewhere between your chest and your throat.

_Im glad you came to visit Britt, i really missed you. so much. x_

They're not just words - they mean something, at least to you they do. They mean even more because you can guess how hard it was for her to write them. You can picture her sitting there, lip caught between her teeth, deciding whether or not to hit the send button on her vulnerabilities. Not that you think emotion is a weakness, but Santana has always taken a bit more convincing. You can imagine her tapping out the words before deleting them, then rephrasing them only to delete them again. But she's sent them, and you hope she meant them, because the sentiment is more than a little mutual.

You should call. She asked you to, but you're nervous. What if you have nothing to talk about? What if it's full of awkward silences and you've forgotten how to just _be?_ She'll just worry if you don't though, so you hit the green button and the line rings only twice before it's answered, and you relax at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Just as well I held off on sending out that search party," she teases, and you roll your eyes because you can hear the smile in her tone.

"My phone died," you explain as you move to lie back on your bed with the phone still pressed tight to your ear. "I got in late, I'm really sorry I forgot to call."

"That's okay, I figured as much. Your Dad said you didn't get home till like one in the morning, you must be exhausted."

"You spoke to my Dad?" you ask, eyebrow raised and curiosity piqued.

"Oh. Yeah… I called your house this morning, you know, just to make sure," she mumbles sheepishly and you fight to stifle the grin threatening to emerge on your face. "He was in his element, as usual. He spent so long telling me about the 4-foot model flamingos he bought for your yard that I think he was actually late for work."

You giggle and she joins you, before the pair of you settle into a comfortable light-hearted conversation about the many colorful ornaments that adorn your backyard. She tells you excitedly that she'll take you to see the real flamingos at the zoo when you're next in New York, and she even suggests you sneak one back as a present for your Dad's birthday.

"I meant to ask you before you left, what date is your graduation?" she interjects suddenly. "The sooner I book flights the cheaper it will be, plus I need to get time off work."

"You're coming to my graduation?" you ask, sounding more surprised than you really mean to. Yes - you went to hers - but you were still together then and now you're not and you honestly weren't sure whether to even ask.

"Of course," she replies, but there is a hint of doubt in her voice. "Unless you don't want me to…"

"No! No, I mean, of course I do. I just wasn't sure if you'd want to come," you say hurriedly, and there's a slight pause before she answers you.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything."

The silence that follows is so charged that your brain short-circuits for a quick moment. The spell is only broken when you hear a bang in the background and muffled noises, before your name is screeched down the line at you and you have to pull the phone away from your ear a little.

"Hello Rachel…"

You want to interrupt but she's already launched into an (admittedly amusing) story about the homeless man on the corner who mistook her for Barbara Streisand and who serenaded her with _The Way We Were_ before proposing marriage by offering up his obviously useless _Alcoholics Anonymous_ ring. You can hear Santana protesting in the background and Rachel huffs before handing the phone back over.

"Sorry about that," she says, and you laugh and tell her it's fine, because you actually quite enjoy Rachel's relentless enthusiasm. "Thanks to Berry's useless rambling I actually can't talk now, I need to go and get ready for work," she explains and you push away the slight feeling of disappointment that flares up in your stomach.

You really hope this can become a more regular thing, now that you're on better terms. You miss her so much already and it's only been a day. She must know exactly what you're thinking because she doesn't hesitate before promising to call you at the end of the weekend, and when you hang up you feel a little giddy and excitable, like a kid who just got bought their favorite ice-cream. You check the school website and you text her your graduation date, before settling back in your bed, content in the best possible way.

The feeling doesn't last as long as you'd like though, as you finally make the time to read the other texts sitting in your inbox. It's the one sent from Sam last night, asking when you'll be back, that has a grip on your happy little bubble and is dragging it slowly back to the ground. You text him that you're home and his reply is almost instant when he asks if you'd like to go round to his house. And really, you wouldn't.

You kind of wanted to put this particular conversation off until, say, you'd had time to unpack. But you can't blow him off again, and you can't pretend that everything is okay, so you guess the time to be honest is now. You feel dread swirling in your stomach as you type and tell him to meet you at Breadstix in an hour, and you drag your tired body off towards the shower.

* * *

You only stand awkwardly outside the restaurant for 15 minutes before sucking it up and managing to head inside. You're late, but then you usually are, and you spot his mop of blonde hair the second the door swings shut behind you. You move in his direction, but it feels like you're walking through treacle and you move as slow as you possibly can without attracting any strange looks.

"Hey," you say quickly when reach him, and he jumps up from his seat immediately to wrap you in a warm and over-bearing hug. He pulls back and beams at you, and your insides are squirming as he leans in for a kiss and you turn your head instinctively, causing him to catch your cheek instead. He looks at you a little oddly, and you force a smile that feels heavy as it settles on your face, before putting some space between the two of you and sliding into the booth to sit. He takes your cue and comes to sit opposite you, before telling you he's missed you. It's the second time today that someone has said those words, and you feel… nothing.

You smile awkwardly, and pick up a menu to look at just so you have something to do other than watch his adoring expression. You had planned exactly what to say before coming over here but now your mind feels frustratingly blank, and you don't even know how to get into what you need to tell him. Maybe you should just _do it_ - rip it off like a band-aid, and explain after.

"How was New York?" he asks, and your eyes flit up at the traces of hesitation you hear in his tone.

"It was good, New York is awesome," you tell him, and the complete lack of enthusiasm in your voice probably gives you away, if he doesn't realize something is wrong by now. You're not your usual bright self, and he's frowning a little.

"Did something happen?" he asks slowly, and you don't even know where you would begin if you wanted to tell him it all. You _don't_ want to though.

Like a band-aid, right?

"I can't do this anymore."

Okay, so it's a little sudden and a lot less tactful than you intended, but it's the truth. You feel pressure lifting from your stomach and chest at hearing the words out loud, but then you're brought back down with a bump when you realize that it's not that simple. He's gaping at you like you've just slapped him across the face, and he obviously realizes you're not talking about lunch.

"What?" he asks, and you take a deep breath and drop your eyes to the table.

"I'm so sorry, I really am. I just… I don't feel the way I think that I'm supposed to, and I don't think it's fair to you to pretend that I do."

"You don't feel the way you're supposed to? What does that even mean?" he asks, voice incredulous and eyes wide. "Where is this coming from?"

"I like you Sam, but it's just not in the right way. I like spending time with you, but I don't get butterflies when I see you, and I don't get that jumpy excited feeling when you call. I don't smile like an idiot every time I think about you, and I don't get goosebumps when you look at me. I want to feel those things Sam, wouldn't you?"

"Well yeah, but it's not all rainbows and fairytales, Brittany. Relationships aren't just like that," he argues, and you might feel sorry for him if his tone wasn't quite so condescending.

"Some are," you say quietly, and he looks struck by realization.

"This is about Santana, isn't it? Something happened while you were away… I knew something would happen." He's muttering to himself and nodding like he's cracked some big mystery; like he knows everything when really he knows nothing at all.

"No, nothing happened Sam. I just had some time to myself to think and realize a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm still completely and totally in love with someone else, and it's not going to go away."

You think you can actually see the hope and all the dogged certainty extinguish in his eyes at your words, and he slouches back into the seat. The silence stretches out uncomfortably between you, and you almost don't expect him to speak up again.

"So, what? You went up to New York to get Santana back, is that it? What about me?" His voice is small, and he's looking at you intently, like he's begging you to take this all back.

"I went to New York to see my best friend, because I hadn't seen her in months, and I missed her. I thought we could try to be friends, I really did. But seeing her again… I'm always going to want more than that. I know I am."

"She broke up with you, Brittany," he says, and he's changed tack from pleading to frustrated in almost an instant. "She broke up with you and left. If she was really your best friend, would she do that? Would she do that if she loved you?"

"She did it _because_ she loved me."

He scoffs and shakes his head at you, because he doesn't get it, and that's okay. But you get it; maybe you didn't at first, but you do now. You can think she was wrong, and you can be upset - you can wish she would have just _talked to you_ instead - but you do get it. You're not going to punish her or yourself because she sees things a little differently to you; because she gets scared. Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward, and you think you're starting to see that. Sam doesn't though, but then why should he.

"Don't do this. You said once that I make you happy," he says desperately, and he looks up at you. "Can't you just give me a chance?"

"I tried to, I really did. It's not enough. You should be with someone who can love you back, _properly_. But that's not me, and it _never_ will be."

You don't want to be harsh, but you don't want him hanging on to false hope either. It's over, and you're not going to change your mind. He blinks at you a few times, seemingly unable to offer up a response. You're sure there's more he wants to know, or more he wants to say, but you suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to be anywhere but here. You take a moment before standing, and you pause to rest a hand on his shoulder briefly, before you walk off and out of the restaurant without looking back.

Maybe you shouldn't reduce breaking up with Sam to just another item on your to-do list, but when you step out into the fresh evening air, you feel free and liberated and lighter than you have in a long time. You feel one step closer to where you really need to be, and you _will_ get there. You have to believe that.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you find the smile you always find when you see her name displayed across the screen.

_i've found a garden ornament section on ebay, how would your dad feel about a 5-piece elephant set..? p.s. booked my flights :) xxx_


	11. Chapter 11

It's painful how slowly time passes when you're desperately waiting for something. Or someone.

The time between last being with Santana and getting to see her again is almost exactly five weeks. Specifically it's 37 days, not that you're counting, and it feels pretty much like forever. You probably shouldn't even be counting – it's counterproductive and it's not like it will carry you through your calendar any quicker, but with the promise of getting to see Santana again you feel particularly impatient.

You want to curl up and sleep through it; just until she gets here, so you can bypass the distractions of school and cheerleading and Glee. She doesn't approve of that though, and she chastises you on the phone for not making more of an effort to enjoy your last days at High School.

She tells you not to let it pass you by in a blur of rehearsals and classes and you get her point but you've already had one near perfect senior year (minus the whole, you know, _failing it_ aspect) and you don't feel the need to try and top it. But you humor her, and she's right, because as much as you miss the friends who've already left, you're gonna miss this bunch of misfits too. Even Kitty. Probably.

You know she's sitting there secretly smug on the other end of the phone when you tell her about how much fun you had on ditch day, or when you enthusiastically recount funny things that happened to you on any particular day. Months ago she would have been disinterested, or she might have placated you with barely sincere words though you knew she didn't really want to hear about the things you got up to at school. But now she laughs and asks questions and sometimes you're on the phone for hours at a time, like you used to be.

Well, it's not _quite_ the same. The silences that once were peaceful and allowed you to just enjoy one another's time and attention are now a little stilted and awkward, and you both feel pressured to fill them. Sometimes she'll ask the same question twice, and sometimes you'll pretend you have to go for dinner when the pauses start to stretch further. Maybe it's not as easy as it once was, but for now it's enough to just to have that line to her, and to know that it's open. It's enough to know that she wants to talk to you.

And you talk most days. You take turns in phoning, and it's okay when she texts to say it's late and she's tired and she'll call the day after instead. It's okay when Rachel hijacks the phone because you reluctantly miss her too, and it's okay when Kurt serenades you in the background while Santana grumpily tries to make herself heard.

She doesn't call as much on the weekends, though she texts often, and that doesn't feel quite as okay. Because you don't need the confirmation of Rachel's texts telling you when she's been shopping with Quinn on a Saturday, to know that the other girl still visits. You don't ask, and Santana doesn't tell, and maybe it's better that way. You try your best not to think of Quinn at all; because it's confusing and terrifying and burying your head in the sand suits you _just fine_ for now. Santana seems happy, and you're determined to think it might be because of you as much as it is because of her. Maybe even more so.

And anyway, tomorrow afternoon at 4:35pm when her plane touches the tarmac at Port Columbus, she's all yours for a whole 3 days, and that's really all that matters.

* * *

You fidget awkwardly as you wait for her, and you're nervous. It's silly, because it's _Santana_; it's the girl you've known since you were 11 and the one person you have loved for as long as you can remember. It's the girl who has kissed you and held you as you laid in the dark; she's your best friend - the girl with whom you have shared every single secret you possess.

It's not really new as such – the feeling of nervous excitement that floods your stomach, because Santana just has that effect on you sometimes, and it's a good feeling. But there is something new about these nerves, something that leaves you a little more anxious than usual, a little less sure.

It melts away to nothing when you see her though. She's dressed in impossibly tight skinny jeans and a button-down shirt, and only Santana would shun comfortable attire for 3 inch heels to catch a flight. She's glancing around the arrivals area, and there's something about knowing that she's looking for you that feels strangely satisfying. Her eyes lock onto yours, and it feels like one of those _big_ moments that only come by once in a while.

When you spot a smile just gracing the corners of her lips it honestly feels like you've been kicked in the stomach; like the relief of seeing her actually hits you like a train. She pauses for a moment, just to really look at you, and it's almost as if you're having some great meaningful conversation with your eyes.

You lift the piece of paper hanging limply at your side and hold it up for her to see, and she takes a moment to tear her eyes away from yours. When she spots the _Welcome_ _Home_ _Momma Tubbington_ scribbled across the paper surrounded by hearts and unicorns she tilts her head back and laughs, and it's possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Even though the airport is noisy and she's still standing too far away from you, you can hear the sound of her laugh playing in your brain like it's imprinted there, and it probably is.

She's shaking her head at you as she makes her way across and you chew your lip as you grin unabashedly at her. It feels like everything is happening in slow-motion as she closes the distance, and even as people walk across and in front of her she never once allows her gaze to stray from you.

Despite your plan to play the entire situation, you know, _totally cool_, you can't help but throw your arms round her neck the second she's within reach. She drops her bags to hug you back properly as she tries to lift and whirl you, but failing miserably and with a huff she gives up and rocks you back on forth on the spot instead. She pulls back and prods you in the stomach to create a little space before nodding to the piece of paper in your hand smiling.

"I hope that's not your way of telling me I'm getting fat," she jokes with an eyebrow raised, and you shake your head affectionately.

"You look amazing, like always," you inform her with a roll of your eyes. "I'd still love you even if you were as huge as Tubbs though," you say, and you're relieved when she doesn't seem perturbed by the ease with which the _L-word_ falls from your tongue.

"Thanks? I think…" she replies, tilting her head in amusement, and you tell her with a wink that she's welcome.

"How was your flight?" you ask as you pick up one of her bags and begin to walk towards the exit, and she shoulders the other bag as she steps into stride beside you.

"Ugh, horrendous," she moans. "They wedged me between some pervy old man who kept looking down my shirt, and this heavy breathing kid who smelled like cheeseburgers. I couldn't even enjoy my complementary houmous snack pot."

She looks affronted and you snort because she sounds alarmingly like a certain Rachel Berry, who you guess has succeeded in getting Santana to try out some of her healthier foods. You feel a passing moment of solidarity with said _pervy old man_ as you let your eyes briefly drift to her cleavage before you re-focus on her pout and then her eyes.

"Sounds awful," you tell her sympathetically and she shakes herself as if she's trying to rid herself of the memory.

"Anyway," she sighs before re-fixing you with a smile, "how are you?"

"Pretty great," you tell her, allowing your eyes to linger and convey the unspoken words you don't have the courage to say. _Pretty great - now you're here. _She meets your gaze head on and smiles softly, before looking away and concentrating on where she's walking, and _oh_, there are those butterflies you wanted.

You've reached the doors that let you out of the airport and she pauses once you're through them, stretching her body a little like a cat, basking in the late afternoon sunshine.

"Thanks for coming to pick me up," she says distractedly, rubbing the back of her neck and craning it from side to side.

"That's okay," you smile, because even though she offered to take the bus, you know Santana isn't really a public transport kinda gal. And anyway, you would have only been sitting at home counting the minutes till she arrived on your doorstep, and this way you get to dictate when you see her instead of waiting around for her to call. And she's actually _here_, so you grin stupidly as you lead her across the parking lot and towards your car.

* * *

You spend most of the drive home singing along to your car radio; Santana hitting the high notes while you attempt to rap along in various silly accents, and you have her grinning like an idiot and clutching her stomach in fits of giggles by the time you reach Lima.

"So, what's the plan for tomorrow?" she asks around a yawn during a commercial break, and you feel that nervous excitement bubbling away again. Only this time, the excitement feels greater, and a little more profound. It's scary too, because tomorrow is effectively the first day of the rest of your life and the world suddenly feels a little bigger.

"The ceremony is at 10," you tell her, your eyes fixed on the road ahead of you. "I think you'll be sitting with my parents, I hope that's okay."

"Of course," she says brightly, "I'm looking forward to seeing them again. What about after?"

"My parents want to take us out for dinner, then Sugar is having a big party to celebrate," you say, and when she doesn't reply you glance across to where she sits in the passenger seat watching you carefully. You kind of expect her to look excited, because if Santana loves anything it's a party, but she mostly looks confused and a little torn.

"What's wrong?" you ask, eyes flicking between the road and her face. She pauses before sighing and looking away from you and out the passenger window.

"Nothing. I just… Shouldn't Sam be the one going out to dinner with you and your parents?" Her tone is casual, but you know better.

You still haven't told her about the break-up, and you're not really sure why. On some level you were sort of nervous; worried the revelation might change this new calm that has settled over the two of you, worried it might complicate further what is already complicated enough. And anyway, it never felt like a conversation you wanted to have over the phone, nor does it feel like one you want to have now, when you can't look her in the eye and watch her while you explain. You sense she needs some kind of answer though.

"No," you say simply, "it should be you."

You can feel her eyes upon you once more, and you don't dare to look across. She sighs again, but she's not annoyed and she doesn't argue with you. You can see her out of the corner of your eye, fiddling with the radio to change the station, and it's a decent enough distraction for now.

"Are you hungry? We could grab some dinner if you like?"

"I promised I'd have dinner with my parents, they're leaving tomorrow morning to go on a cruise," she says easily, and you turn to look at her while she fiddles with something on her phone. You thought part of her reason for coming here was to catch up with her parents but if they're not even going to be here…

"Oh," you say, not really sure what else to add, "should I take you straight home then?" You haven't quite managed to mask the disappointment in your voice and she probably notices.

"Yeah, if that's okay? I promise though, starting tomorrow you have my _full_ attention." She's smiling that charming smile of hers; the one that graces her features ever so softly and makes your legs turn to jelly, which is frankly less than ideal while you're trying to drive.

"Tomorrow it is," you smile, turning your car to head in the direction of her house. When she thanks you for the ride and leans across to hug you, you're suddenly back in Senior year, and you almost forget yourself and just plant one on her. You catch yourself just at the last moment though, and awkwardly kiss her on the cheek instead, earning you a curious smile and a kiss on the cheek in return. You're blushing furiously by the time she reaches her front door and lets herself in, turning back to throw you a cute wave before disappearing inside and closing the door behind her.

You sing all the way back to your house, and head more or less straight up to your room after repeatedly assuring your Dad that you didn't get so much as a scratch on his car, and you're almost offended when he disappears outside to confirm it for himself. You pick up the _CUNY Late Admissions_ brochure sitting on your bed, and pick up reading from where you left off this morning.

* * *

When your phone buzzes on the morning of your graduation it's turns out it's actually as a result of a series of messages rather than your alarm, and you fumble around your bedside table, grabbing a series of items before you actually locate your phone to check the time. It's probably just as well you did; you seem to have either failed to set your alarm or have slept through it, because it's already 8:00am, and it would be just like you to miss your second attempt at graduating by sleeping through the ceremony.

There's a knock on your door before your Mom shouts at you to get your lazy ass out of bed so you can make yourself presentable before you need to leave, and you yell back that you're awake before rolling out of bed and dragging yourself in the direction of the bathroom. When you're sat back on your bed, clean and wrapped up in a fluffy towel so large it could double as a blanket, you pick up your phone to flick through your messages.

There's a group text from Tina that reads simply '_GRADUATION BITCHES x' _which you guess is pretty much straight to the point, and there is a 4 page text from Rachel that is considerably less to the point, though the overriding message seems to be _congratulations_ – you think. Kurt texts you to tell you that you're a unicorn, and that he's learned to believe in your magic and while you're busy getting a little teary-eyed you almost miss the text from Quinn that simply reads 'well done britt x'. It's kind of unexpected, though pretty nice of her you suppose, and it crosses your mind that she must know that Santana is here.

Santana texts too, of course, and you only re-read the message like, 2_ or 3 times_. Or ten. Whatever.

_even though I'm proud of you pretty much every single day, im particularly proud today. you deserve this britt. can't promise not to be horrifically embarrassing when I cheer u on later! I'll see u soon, break a leg :) xxx_

It's funny how 39 little words can lift you and make you feel like you're walking on air, or clouds, or however it is that saying goes. It makes the daily routine of beautifying yourself a bit more fun than usual, and by the time you're dressed in your simple but elegant black dress, you feel like a million bucks.

* * *

There is a relentless hum of noise while you wait backstage with your fellow graduates and all anyone can talk about is the party later tonight, and it seems almost strange to you because it feels like there are bigger things still to play for here. Sure - unlike you, most of these guys have their plans for the future set already, but as appealing as a raging kegger at the Motta household seems, it's not quite the most exciting aspect of today for you.

You stand between Tina and Sugar who both primp and pout into the compact mirrors they sneaked in via their bras, and you can see Blaine fiddling nervously with his bow-tie and it's making you a little antsy. Sam is the one to snap and step in to fix it himself, and it means he's distracted from shooting rueful looks at you every few seconds so you breathe a quiet sigh of relief and turn to talk to Artie who's trying in vain to re-arrange his gown so it won't get caught in his wheels.

There's a shout into the crowd and you're told to arrange yourselves in name order before they check you (and seriously, you'd like to think that a group of people smart enough to graduate could put themselves in alphabetical order, but apparently you can't be trusted with that). When Mrs Matthews, the clipboard-wielding geography teacher who may actually be older than geography itself, has confirmed that you are all in fact able to arrange yourselves correctly, you are led out and into the hall to a rousing reception from the friends, family and students gathered there.

You can't see Santana or your parents yet, but you know your Mom will probably already be tearing up, and that's before you even get your name called out.

The ceremony is _long_. There are a bunch of stuffy old guys doing speeches, and some spotty kid you're not even sure you recognize does the valedictorian speech and manages to somehow be thoroughly uninspiring. You watch your friends get called out one by one, and watch their faces light up with joy (and in some cases, relief) as they're handed their diplomas.

When your turn arrives you find the grin you sport makes your cheeks ache, and there's a huge cheer when you step onto the stage. You're well-liked by your classmates, and the Glee Club cheer extra loud for you - you know Santana is in the crowd screaming her lungs out but you can't hear her over the claps and shouts. Even Figgins shoots you a wry smile as you collect your diploma from Miss Pillbury, and she looks on with total pride as you switch the tassel of your cap from right to left.

It feels even better than you thought it would. It feels like validation; like the ultimate reward for all the hard-work you've put in this year and it feels like redemption, for all the ways you messed up last year. All the things you missed out on and all the times you felt left behind – they just fade away into insignificance because this is _your day_, and you can do _anything_ now. It's a clean slate, and while it's not often you feel proud of yourself, today is definitely one of those days.

When you toss your cap in the air and you wrap your fellow graduates in bear-hugs while the crowd cheers for you all, you think this must be what it feels like to actually succeed. Only you have big plans - though you're not quite sure of the details - and this is just the beginning, you know it.

* * *

When you finally see Santana for the first time that day, she's leaning casually against your old lockers and smiling as she flicks through something on her phone. The halls are half-empty though there are students and parents still milling about, and as you approach her she doesn't actually notice you at first. You see the thing that has her attention is an endless stream of photos she has taken during the ceremony; mostly of you, though some of the others too.

You smile as you reach out to touch her arm and break her from her reverie, and she jumps before looking up at you. Her eye make-up is smudged a little beneath her eyes, and the look on her face is one of unwavering pride, and you think, love. The phone is forgotten as she wordlessly pulls you into a long hug, and you feel an overwhelming mixture of emotions hit you abruptly, as you stand clutching to the back of her jacket.

This place, these hallways - they feel strange to you now all of a sudden. But she - she feels familiar and warm and a lot like home.

When she pulls back you use the pads of your fingers to wipe at the mascara underneath her eyelashes, and she lets out a strangled chuckle before pawing at her face to rid herself of the evidence that, really – she's just a big sap underneath it all.

"You killed it," she says, smiling at you and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"All I did was walk onto a stage," you say with a chuckle, and she shakes her head and shrugs.

"Whatever. You were awesome at it. Best walk ever."

You get the feeling she could argue her point till the sun goes down, so you relent and curtsy before leaning against the lockers like she had done a moment ago. She mirrors your position and looks around the hallways with a wistful look on her face.

"It's weird being back here again, I honestly didn't think I'd ever come back after the last time."

You watch her carefully and think back to the moment she means, when you were giving her up so she could have her dreams, and you were the one walking away. You know she wasn't as _okay_ with the conversation as she'd tried to seem at the time, but you weren't really either, and you'd barely made it out of her sight before the mask you'd been wearing slipped and you'd faltered. But things are so different now, and you can see it in the way her brow isn't as wrinkled as you might expect as she regards her surroundings.

"Thank you," you say to bring her eyes back to your face. "For coming today."

She watches you quietly for a moment as something flashes briefly in her eyes, before she's pushing herself off of the lockers and straightening out her jacket.

"Well how else would I be able to give you your present?" she smirks, and you stand up straight yourself.

"My present? Santana, you didn't have to get me a gift…"

"I didn't _have_ to, no. I just wanted to."

Her hands are tucked behind her back and she rocks back and forth, looking a little devilish and _very tempting_. You want to ask her what it is, and so you do. But she only grins knowingly, and taps her nose as she turns to walk away from you in the direction of the hall.

"Patience, Britt-Britt," she says and you can hear the smile in her words. "All in good time."

* * *

**A.N.**

So yeah, I'm rubbish at updating! I'm sorry this took quite so long, I re-wrote this chapter from scratch like 3 times because I wasn't happy with it, and I'm not the fastest writer at the best of times... I also definitely should not be up at this godforsaken hour trying to get this finished and put up, but whatcha gonna do! I've not actually checked it through so please forgive any mistakes!

The next chapter or two will hopefully see us kick this Brittana reunion up a gear, and I will say no more... :)

Oh and also, Glee sucks. Lord T knows who his real parents are. Like, seriously. Go away Sam.


	12. Chapter 12

So it's kind of short... but hey! An update! For those who are still interested and reading, I am **very** sorry this took so long. (Also to the people who sent PMs, as you can see, I'm woeful at keeping promises...) Hopefully I'll be back into the flow of writing now, and there will _definitely_ be another update before the week is out. So yeah... I hope people don't hate it too much!

* * *

"Are you sure you want me there tonight?"

The words pause your hand where it hovers next to your face, mascara wand grasped firmly and now skirting dangerously close to your nose. You try to re-focus past the reflection of your own face to the bed behind you, from where the words drifted from.

Santana is sitting back against your headboard and fiddling absent-mindedly with one of the shimmering tops you tried on earlier before it was discarded to the miniature scrapheap forming on the bed. When she glances up to meet your eyes in the mirror you furrow your brow before returning to the task in hand, coating your lashes slowly and deliberately.

"Er, why wouldn't I?" you ask, and when your eyes flicker towards her form again you notice a brief smirk, no doubt prompted by the awkward face you're pulling as you apply your make-up.

"I dunno, I just don't want you to feel like you're stuck with me or anything," she says with a half-shrug and you find you're having quite a bit of trouble trying to be as delicate as possible while you have this conversation. Multitasking has never really been your strong point.

"Are you kidding? I've been looking forward to seeing you for weeks," you say, still squinting at your own reflection.

"Yeah, me too. I just don't wanna stop you from celebrating with your friends, that's all," she says, her tone light as she runs her fingers through the sequins on the garment sitting in her lap.

"They're your friends too," you tell her, re-capping the mascara and turning to face her properly. She quirks an eyebrow in your direction and you shrug with a smile. "Some of them…" you say with a tilt of your head, and she shakes her head with a grin.

"Well just don't feel like you have to hold my hand or anything, you can do your own thing," she says with a lazy smile and a flick of her wrist.

"Oh, why thank you," you exclaim with a hand to your chest and your best air of gratitude, and her eye roll is playful rather than sarcastic.

You lift the lip gloss from your dresser and turn back to the mirror, attention focused on your own lips, when her next words cause you to slip and smudge VeryBerry halfway down your chin.

"If you wanna hang out with Sam, that's obviously cool too."

She hasn't managed to convey quite as much indifference as you suspect she was going for, and that's probably why her eyes no longer face in your direction, rather down at her own perfectly manicured nails. You watch her carefully, left hand wiping at the gluey substance on your chin and smearing it into the back of your other hand.

You briefly contemplate lying. Well, maybe not _lying_ as such, but just ignoring the comment altogether. She's bound to notice something though, if not in your tone, then certainly later on at the party. You're not even really sure why you've put off this conversation for so long. It's not that you're afraid to tell her, not really – no it's her reaction that has your mind pre-occupied and wandering through a maze of different outcomes.

Because what if she doesn't care? Sure, she's not going to jump for joy or punch the air or anything, but you want her to have to have _some_ kind of feeling about it. You want her to be affected, however perverse it sounds.

"That might be a little awkward," you say carefully, eyes trained on her through the mirror. "We've kind of been avoiding each other since the break-up."

It's instant; the way her eyes snap up to meet yours without even missing a beat. She stares at you intently, and you search her face for a cue, for some indication of how she feels about that particular piece of information. Her eyes are insistent and you see her throat bobble as she watches you so closely, so carefully, like a leopard might watch its prey. You turn to face her properly, lip gloss clutched tightly in your hand.

"When?" she asks, voice ever so subtly strangled, eyes dropping briefly to her lap in an effort to conceal the pointedness of the question.

"A while ago," you admit quietly, shifting awkwardly where you stand.

You can hear it – the unspoken _why_ bidding to fall from her tongue - but her face is impassive and her restraint apparently immovable. You thought that she might be guarded about this, careful in her questioning.

"Oh," is all she says when she finally remembers to speak, the atmosphere switching from intense to slightly awkward in the time it takes you to draw breath. All things considered, that's probably an easier place to start. She drops her gaze, and you wonder briefly if that's all you're getting.

"Don't tell me Trouty Mouth had the nerve to cut you off from those big fish lips of his?"

She's trying to lighten the mood but there is none of the usual lilt in her tone and the half-smile she wears is forced, of that much you are sure. Honestly, she looks and sounds a little uncomfortable, as if she herself isn't quite sure how to process this information or how she should react to it.

"I… kinda cut myself off," you mumble, and at her look you clarify it, leaving her with no doubt. "I mean, it was me that ended it." She tilts her head to the side and her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

"What did he do?" she asks seriously, her back straightening and her shoulders squaring. There is an intent to her now that wasn't there a moment ago, and you smile softly as you meet her gaze straight on and shrug.

"Nothing. He didn't do anything."

You think you see the exact moment realization clicks into place for her; her entire face falls for the briefest of seconds, and suddenly her eyes are alight with the kind of fire you haven't seen in her for the longest time. Her eyes begin to flick back and forth between your own, like she's searching for some kind of catch, and you can't decide if the look on her face is one of relief or of oddly mingled hope.

"I'm sorry," she says slowly, her eyes shining and causing your heart to quicken its pace.

"No you're not," you challenge teasingly. The knowing smile you receive in return graces her lips slowly, almost shyly, warming you with its sincerity and affection.

"No. No I'm not."

_No_, Santana may not be jumping for joy, or punching the air. For once though, she lets the emotions play out openly across her face, and you don't have to read between the lines or second guess what she's thinking. She quite clearly _cares, _and with that knowledge, hope and excitement floods your chest. You turn back to face the mirror, smirking coyly as you see her eyes following you in the mirror, and you return to applying your long since forgotten lip gloss.

* * *

The change is subtle, but you notice it nonetheless. Maybe it's the way she stands a little closer to you than she seemed to before, or maybe it's how she leans in when you speak, a gentle yet proprietary hand coming to rest on the small of your back while she tips her head back to laugh at something you've said.

Despite her earlier insistence that you _do your own thing_ she's hardly left your side since you arrived, and _god_ it feels like the good old days; when you were this indomitable twosome that moved effortlessly like a single being. Sugar is as taken with Santana as she ever was, and she follows you both around her own party, desperate for some bizarre sort of approval that Santana seems to give more readily than she ever would have before.

You've never seen Santana be so - well – _nice,_ before. Sure, all the sarcastic quips remain, and the insults are still as subtle as a brick, but there is something softer about her now, something rather more good-natured. Maybe it's this new confidence she has about her these days, easier and less forced, that means no longer does she fight to be the center of attention or to have the last say.

The party is much bigger than you had been expecting. You don't even recognize half the guests and if all the other Glee kids are here they must be pretty scattered. You think you caught a glimpse of a set of wheels when you arrived, so Artie is definitely here, and you heard Kitty before you saw her, flirting her way through a throng of people. The house is full enough that you've been able to completely avoid Sam – last seen playing beer pong with some guys from the football team – altogether.

Or so you had thought, but the first time Santana excuses herself to go to the bathroom you hear the familiar voice call your name, and with it the familiar mop of blonde hair slides into your vision.

By in large you've exchanged nothing but stilted pleasantries these past few weeks - though most of that has been from you - while he has mostly alternated between wistful staring and a glower as though you had kicked him in the balls. Maybe it's the beer that has caused him to approach you all of a sudden, and you find yourself subtly glancing round for an escape-route.

You offer him an awkward _hey_ and he pauses for a moment before smiling tentatively at you.

"I just wanted to say, well done. You know, for graduating and stuff," he says, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

"Oh," you say, a little startled, before you smile back. "Yeah, you too. Look at us go, right?"

He smiles and scratches at the back of his neck, considering you like there is something else he wants to say.

"Santana's here," he says, and you glance briefly in the direction she disappeared in before re-focusing on the boy in front of you, not really sure what you should say.

"Are you two-"

"Sam."

"Sorry, it's none of my business."

You watch him carefully and you actually let the question take hold in your brain for the briefest of moments. _Are you_? You're friends, of course, but maybe…

His voice breaks you from your trance and he asks you if you know yet what you'll be doing next year, and you tell him you're not really sure. He isn't either, it seems. He thinks he will probably be in Lima, and you think you will be in New York, though you don't actually say it out loud. Not yet.

"It would be cool if we could, I dunno, maybe keep in touch," he says eventually, and you're reminded strangely of your fondness for him - for this boy who has been, if nothing else, a good friend to you this past year.

"Sure," you tell him with a smile, and he seems pleased as he takes his leave to find his friends.

* * *

When you finally locate Santana again she is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she speaks to an enthusiastic and slightly drunk Artie. She wordlessly hands you a drink as you come to stand next to her, laughing at a story Artie is telling about an awful blind date Tina set him up on.

When he's finished, and all of your laughter breaks for pause, he brazenly asks over the rim of his cup if Santana is seeing anyone. You guess he's a little too drunk to notice the sharp look you send in his direction so you re-avert your eyes to Santana, who is looking more bemused than uncomfortable as she places a hand to her chest.

"The only relationship I'm in at the moment is the one with my DVR," she deadpans before wrinkling her nose, "and even then I have to share with Rachel."

"Yeah, but you can't have sex with a machine," Artie slurs suggestively, as if by quirking his eyebrows he'll somehow prompt Santana into sharing some kind of sordid secret with him.

"Well technically…" she starts conspiratorially as she leans towards him, but at your coughing fit she relents and stands straight with a wry smile. "No sex, sorry to disappoint Wheels."

It's pretty comical - the way Artie's face visibly falls, bitterly disappointed that he won't be getting any juicy gossip, much less any details. You find yourself a little too distracted to spare amusement at his expense though, your eyes raking across Santana's inexpressive features, searching for the lie in her words.

"That's… boring," Artie complains, and Santana can only laugh as she turns to pour herself another drink.

" 'Fraid so," she smirks, and your mind kicks into overdrive.

* * *

It's almost a full hour and several rums later when you pluck up the courage to bring up the conversation again. You're sitting amongst a large group though mostly you speak to one another while Sugar holds court next to you.

"Earlier," you start, not really sure how to phrase the question you want to ask with any subtlety. Santana half glances up from the picture message she's just received of Rachel at a karaoke bar (captioned with '_5th in a row, I give it 1 more before we're asked to leave.._').

"Hmm?" she asks, tapping out a reply on her phone.

You close one eye in concentration, desperate to phrase your point in a way you makes you seem the perfect combination of nonchalant and assured.

"When Artie asked you if you were seeing anyone…" you try, faltering just a little as her hands still and her head lifts slightly, her attention captured though she doesn't look at you yet. "You know, you don't have to lie for my sake," you say quietly as you glance around about you, and she meets your eyes properly with a questioning look. "Whatever it is that's going on with you and Quinn-… you're allowed to talk about it. It's okay."

Her eyes narrow and you swear it's like she can see straight through you.

"It's… okay?" she asks somewhat disbelievingly and you shrug with a smile, not entirely sure you trust yourself to speak. She places her phone in her lap, forgotten for a moment, as she watches you warily.

"There's nothing going on between Quinn and I," she says after a long pause. "Not anymore, anyway."

You wonder if she notices the way you sit up a little straighter at her words, or if the feeling of pure relief that engulfs you is obvious on your face. She waits watchfully for a response, and yet all you manage is a breathy "Oh." All the people seated around you talking and laughing seem as though they are muffled behind glass as you sit quietly regarding each other for a moment. Santana shrugs and picks up her phone again, shaking herself from the stare.

"She still comes to stay sometimes, we hang out. That's it though."

Her tone is so casual, as though it would make no odds to you whether she is or isn't with Quinn. You wonder if she actually thinks that, or if she is just trying to make light of a conversation threatening to take on a more serious and intense tone in the middle of a crowded party.

You should say something; something clever or profound, something meaningful. But when she's done fiddling with her phone and she looks up at you again, you find all the questions you are desperate to ask her seem to die in your throat.


End file.
